


On Location (Touring Around The Nation)

by bowlingfornerds



Series: long fics [24]
Category: The 100
Genre: Also a lot of music and feelings, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Brollexa is happening, F/M, Fluff, Rock Band, Songfic, There is an abundance of Murphy, band au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-24
Updated: 2016-05-28
Packaged: 2018-06-10 10:36:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 30,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6953230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bowlingfornerds/pseuds/bowlingfornerds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bellamy doesn't know it, but when he's eight years old he hears Clarke Griffin play the piano and it changes his life. He's eighteen when they begin to play together; throwing away their feud and finding music as the common denominator between them.</p><p>With their friends and their love of music, Bellamy Blake creates a band, creates an album, and tours the nation. (He might just go after the girl, too.)</p><p>Rock Band AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title from No Sleep Till Brooklyn, by the Beastie Boys.
> 
> HELLO WELCOME TO THE MONSTER BAND FIC I HAVE BEEN TALKING ABOUT FOR ABOUT THREE WEEKS.  
> I finally finished it, and it means the world to me that I'm proud of it. Seriously; this fic was my child. I brought it into this world and I can take it right back out again.  
> I super hope you enjoy it - I worked really REALLY hard on it. I even edited it and everything. There'll probably be daily updates, so you won't have to wait long for the next chapter!  
> The song featured here is called Hero of War, written by Rise Against. All the songs in this fic I have 100% stolen and pretended that Bellamy wrote them. I'll always say what song they are, though.  
> ENJOY (or don't, I'm not your mother.)

It started when Bellamy was eight, and Octavia was six, and they were sitting at the counter of their mother’s old and grimy music store, Blake Music, under yellow plastic lights and surrounded by musical instruments. The door chimed open with the bell, and a young girl entered; blonde ringlets looking almost brown under the lighting, but mouth parted as an ‘O’ as she looked around the store. Behind her, entered two adults:  a man and a woman, the former of whom placed his hands on his daughter’s shoulders and smiled down at her.

“Let’s go look at the pianos,” he said to her, and they scuffled off in the direction of the keyboards, the girl almost skipping with excitement. The mother looked around, muttering _how quaint_ under her breath, but still loud enough for Bellamy to hear. He may have been eight, but even he knew that ‘quaint’ was another word for ‘rundown’ and her smile was more of a grimace. But it fell off her face, and turned into something of wonder as the sounds of piano keys jingled through the store. They were high notes; played perfectly in time – something complex but short, and the woman rushed off in the direction her family had gone in.

“That’s wonderful, Clarke,” Bellamy could hear her say, and he and his sister waited for someone to remerge from that corner of the store, as they listened to the young girl play the piano.

It was the man who came back. His smile was friendly, and his face worn – there were crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes, and his hair was a sandy colour that looked almost grey in the store’s lights.

“Are you two running the store today?” he asked pleasantly, and it wasn’t in the way that others did, as they would joke about the two children sitting behind the counter and watching the shop. Bellamy nodded his head and Octavia did also, deadly serious.

“We can use the till and everything,” she informed him, rapping at the metal of the till with her knuckles.

“I’m sure,” he agreed. “We were just wondering about that grand piano, in the corner? There’s a good price on it, but there doesn’t seem to be anything about delivery.” Bellamy nodded.

“Our uncle Bruce delivers the pianos for thirteen pound if you’re in Ark, and twenty if you’re outside of it,” he recited from memory. The man nodded with a smile.

“Great, thank you.” He wandered off back into the store, and the piano took over again. Bellamy’s interest got the better of him – it wasn’t often when he’d hear such beautiful music in the store, as opposed to quick chord progressions and people hissing at the prices. He tried to move nonchalantly about the shop, before stopping next to a cello. Bellamy looked past it, to the family at the piano; the little girl on the stool, playing with her back ramrod straight, and her parents watching in delight. The music was classical, and the pearls around the mother’s neck were expensive – but Bellamy held no ill will; his mother hadn’t raised him to do that.

When they came to pay, Bellamy filled out the receipts slowly and carefully, took their address for the delivery, and placed it in the basket. He handed Octavia the large SOLD sign, and she skipped off into the store to place it on the grand piano in the corner – the one that the girl had made come alive with just her fingertips.

“Do you play any instruments?” The father asked, as he typed in his pin code into the card machine. Bellamy nodded.

“My sister and I both play guitar,” he replied.

“Acoustic?”

“O does, yeah,” he said. “I’ve moved on to electric, but I’m sure she will too.”

“You could make a band,” the young girl told him, smiling. “And perform to really big crowds of, like, a million people!” Bellamy smiled at her; her ringlets danced about her shoulders, and her fingers gripped the counter in a childish way that was so different to how she played the piano – now free and joyous, whilst her music was slow and contained.

“That’s what I want to do,” he grinned. “And we’ll write our own music and have a tour!”

“And your own t-shirts!” the girl continued. Bellamy slid the receipt over to the man, and was thanked.

“Come along, Clarke,” the woman said, holding out her hand for her daughter. The girl took her mother’s hand, and skipped out of the store, calling her _goodbye_ as she left. Bellamy didn’t know it at the time; so young and clumsy, with fists that hit kids who pushed others, and hair that just wouldn’t look tidy no matter how hard he tried – but that was the start; _she_ was the start of everything.

-

“Oh, Princess,” he mocked, picking up the book that Clarke Griffin had dropped when she ran into him, not paying attention. “How will you ever forgive me – I have made your clothes dirty with the germs of a peasant.” His friends laughed, jeering alongside him at Clarke; her hair tied back and wavy, and her eyes blue as the goddamn ocean. She snatched the book back with a perfectly manicured hand, slipping it under her arms once more.

“I’ll fucking behead you,” she growled, before pushing around him in the hall. For a moment they were silent, before Bellamy and his friends burst out into laughter. The Princess really woke up on the wrong side of the bed that morning. Bellamy looked at her through the crowds in the hall; watching her back retreat down the corridor before she turned – perfectly poised on ballet-dancing feet – to enter a classroom.

“Come on, Blake,” Murphy said, slapping a hand on his shoulder. “We’ve got class.”

“Which one?” he asked – Bellamy couldn’t remember a time in which he brought his timetable to school with him.  Murphy shrugged, looking over to Mbege and Miller.

“History, I think,” Miller replied, but still not sure himself. Bellamy nodded and they headed off in that direction, finding their class already seated – bar the table at the back that the four of them slumped at, Bellamy’s fingers drumming at the table and Miller slipping into a chair beside him.

The thing about Bellamy Blake was that he was _good_ at school. He never really meant for it, and sometimes he tried extra hard to act as if he didn’t understand – but he did. He didn’t like learning, and he hated the school that he was at; but he just remembered facts easily, understood complex equations and he could write like a dream. Miller, too, was good at school – but that was only because he tried for it; he was the only one in their little group that came from the upper side of Ark, and whilst Murphy and Mbege – resident assholes – made sure to poke him about that at every available opportunity, Bellamy had never cared. He and Miller had been friends since they were little – running around the music store and pretending the floor was lava, and the only way to avoid it was to jump from stool to stool, piano to counter.

(Sometimes, Bellamy wondered why it was so different, when it came to him and Clarke Griffin – why didn’t he call Miller a Prince, and mock him for his wealth when it’s all he seemed to do to the blonde girl?)

(He thought it’s because he’d always had Miller, whilst Clarke only entered his life at the beginning of high school.)

So History went on and Bellamy tuned out Murphy’s mutterings about some guy that he thought was hot – every now and again Miller would agree, and Mbege would snort, but it was like that every day; Bellamy could turn it off. He did his work and waited for lunch, just like everyone else – the minutes ticking by, slowly, slowly, and he counted his seconds until he could leave and get to his favourite part of the day-

Miller rolled his eyes at one of Murphy’s jokes, Mbege had only written the date in his book, Bellamy had finished the work, and still he was waiting – goddamn it, Bellamy was always waiting.

The _second_ the bell went, he was standing.

“Aren’t you coming to lunch with us, Blake?” Mbege asked, Bellamy’s things already in his backpack, slung over one shoulder.

“Lunch time detention,” he lied, like he did every day.

“Shit man, you gotta stop getting those,” Murphy replied. Miller nodded – he’d caught on that Bellamy didn’t actually get detention as much as the other delinquents they hung out with, but even he didn’t know where he went every day.

“Yeah,” Miller said, face impassive. “Murphy’s gonna hit on that Sterling guy – we’re gonna watch him crash and burn.” Murphy laughed.

“You’re gonna watch me get laid,” he corrected. Miller scrunched up his nose and Bellamy just _wished_ for the conversation to be over.

“I’d prefer not to,” Miller said. Mbege laughed and Murphy rolled his eyes. “Have fun in detention.” With that, Bellamy was off.

The school was larger than most, so it took a while of dodging around students and ducking into various alcoves on the walls, before he made it to the auditorium. This was, by far, the best part of Bellamy’s day (at least, it had been since the days in which he used to go and pick up Octavia from the school down the road and walk her home, her voicing giggling and laughing in the air) – but it was also a little odd, considering the rest of his life.

Nevertheless, he pushed open the door and slipped inside in a brief moment of quiet in the hallway. The second the door was shut behind him, Bellamy let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. The room was dark, as always; deep reds, browns and purples filling the room – velvet opaque curtains hanging to block out any light. On the stage – the one Bellamy was walking towards, slowly, quietly – there was a spotlight; a piano; a girl with her hair tied back, blonde and bright as the sun, and her fingers dancing along the keys.

He slipped into a seat, only a few rows from the front, and dropped his bag quietly by his feet. Clarke played like a dancer; she was a ballerina of the piano – her fingers elegant and precise, straight back and wondrous expression; as if this was _it_ , this was beauty, pure and simple, in an instrument that was so large and imposing. She was wonderful; her music always was – like pure magic drifting in the air, lilting on the high notes before going low, the waves brushing along the shore, in and out, even with Bellamy’s breathing, his eyes drifting shut.

Clarke didn’t use sheet music – she just _knew_. She was composing, most likely, because it was a new song; something Bellamy had never heard before; and her eyes were closed like his, losing herself in the music, body gracefully swaying from side to side as the notes shined around her skin, through her bones, in her hair – a halo made of her artwork.

Eventually, the song tapered off, and Bellamy opened his eyes. Clarke was looking directly at him, her expression neutral for someone who had just played something so beautiful – but she wasn’t surprised he was sitting there, wasn’t surprised that he was enjoying the music, and she was silent.

“That was beautiful,” he said at last, his voice rough. A smile played along her lips for a second, and she looked back to where her fingers were pressed lightly on the keys.

“It’s new,” she replied.

“It’s amazing.” This was their truce – their forty minutes a day of the battlefield in the distance, their guns by their feet. He’d left his shield somewhere in the hall, and his guarded expression with his friends. This was when he felt at home; felt comfortable and happy – with her music still drifting around his head, on repeat, the high then the low notes, like her fingers gently tapping them at his forehead.

“It’s so far from where you were in the store,” he told her after another moment, picking up his backpack. Bellamy made his way to the stage, climbing up the steps at the side, before dropping the bag on the piano with hers and sitting beside her on the stool.

“That was ten years ago, Bellamy,” she told him pointedly, and he smiled.

“Give or take a few months,” he replied. Bellamy carefully placed his fingers on the keys, playing something slow and careful, something he’d been taught as a child in that music store, something that he could never forget even if he tried. Clarke was quiet, watching him play it through once, before placing her hands on the keys next to his.

“Go again,” she said, quiet, soft, as if she was pleading it and hoping he would never hear at the same time. But he did, and Bellamy obliged, starting it up from the beginning, and watching as Clarke joined in. His low notes contrasting with her high – her fingers playing a beautiful harmony at the other end of the piano; something a little faster in between his notes, a little messy and made up, a little perfect and a little them.

When they stopped this time, Bellamy laughed, looking at her. God, Clarke was beautiful. She had always been beautiful and he couldn’t pinpoint why he hated her – why he _said_ he hated her.

“You’re good at piano,” she told him – and coming from Clarke, that was an honour. Bellamy ducked his head.

“Better at guitar,” he replied. Clarke nodded.

“I know, I’ve heard you play. It’s more your style, anyway.” He raised an eyebrow at her and she nodded. “You’re all angry music and destroying the hierarchy,” she continued.

“You forgot smashing the patriarchy,” he added. Clarke paused for a minute before grinning, nodding.

“Exactly – I’m classically trained. I’m –“

“Rich as all hell,” Bellamy finished. She nodded, smiling less this time.

“Something like that. But you should bring your guitar next time – I’m up for learning some rock.”

“I think punk’s more my style, but you’ve gotta start somewhere,” he agreed. “Anyway, I probably can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because no one knows I come here during lunch,” he said, standing up now. He shrugged like it was obvious, leaning against the piano.

“Your friends _actually believe_ that you get a detention a day?” she asked, the humour and disbelief evident in her voice. He nodded.

“Apart from Miller – but still he doesn’t know that I’m here.”

“Man, your friends are idiots,” Clarke muttered. Bellamy nodded, not fighting her on it. “Fine, I’ll see if I can bring a guitar,” she decided, sitting up straight once more. “I think us playing together would make this time-“ she gestured around with her hands, “-a little more beneficial.” Bellamy laughed, checking the time on his phone before slinging his backpack across his shoulder.

He started moving towards the door at the side of the stage, sending a wave over his shoulder.

“I don’t come here for anything _beneficial,_ Princess,” he told her, trying to not let the mocking come out – this was sacred ground. “I come here to listen to you play.”

It would have sounded like a confession if he’d looked back. So he didn’t, just barged out of the door and left her sitting at the piano.

-

The music store was still running when Bellamy was eighteen – but it wasn’t running particularly _well._ Then again, it never had been – just enough to keep it open all of his life. They didn’t hire anyone to work there; that would be unnecessary, especially when Aurora had two children who would work the store on weekends and evenings after school, even though they were adamant that they wanted lives.

Bellamy was running the store, a few days later. Clarke hadn’t managed to get a guitar for their lunch time sessions in the auditorium, but Bellamy hadn’t minded – he got to listen to her practice, sometimes got to talk to her like he wasn’t a royal jerk, and the day before she’d even had him sit next to her at the piano, marking down the notes on a sheet of music for her as she played them, trying to compose something for herself.

He could hear Octavia thumping down the stairs, and turned just as she walked through the door that led from their apartment into the shop.

“Morning big bro,” she smiled, slipping past the counter and towards the door.

“And where are you headed?” Octavia rolled her eyes as she turned back to him.

“Monty and Jasper are setting things on fire in Monty’s garden,” she replied with a shrug. She tapped her backpack that’s slung over her shoulder. “I’m going to go and burn my diary from when I was ten.” Bellamy couldn’t help it, letting out a bark of laughter.

“Fine,” he said. “But you owe me for leaving me on my own today.”

“I’m sure you can manage this _huge crowd_ by yourself,” she said pointedly, looking around the empty shop for extra emphasis. “Oh, ma’am, don’t be giving birth on the floor!” she joked, pointing to one corner. “And sir, there’s no need to be starting a brawl over the kazoos!” Bellamy just rolled his eyes as she cackled, pushing out the front door of the shop.

But the store was only empty for a second, because the old worn bell chimed again as the door opened once more.

Bellamy raised his eyebrows as Clarke wandered into the shop, looking around in silent awe as she had all those years before. Bellamy couldn’t really remember a time since that day, ten years before, when she’d been back in the shop. Before he died a few years previous, Jake had come in when they needed a tune up, a new key, another instrument – but Clarke hadn’t returned.

Here she was though, smiling and wandering through the store.

“What in God’s name are you doing here?” he asked, and Clarke smiled.

“I thought we could play together,” she said with a shrug. “It’s a quiet shop, and-“ she reached up on her tip-toes, looking over the strings section. “I see you still have a piano.” It felt like a challenge, when she looked back at him. It was as if she were daring him to say no, to tell her that he wasn’t going to play, to say that she has to buy something or leave. Clarke Griffin was daring him to be the jerk that he usually was, when they weren’t surrounded in their shared love of music. She was daring him to call her Princess in a cruel tone, and shove her away – but, goddamn it, Bellamy couldn’t do that.

Not here, not in the store when this was where they first met, where he first heard her play. Not when he was itching to reach for a guitar and show her what he can do.

So he nodded, and Clarke fucking _beamed_ at him – like she didn’t care that he was a dick, like she forgot his harsh words and sharp glares; like _this_ was the Bellamy she knew, and the other one was just someone else in his skin.

Within a few seconds she was at the piano, testing the keys out under her fingers as he pulled out an acoustic guitar.

“Thought you’d be into the electric,” she commented, looking over her shoulder. Bellamy slung the strap across his shoulders with a smirk.

“Oh, I am,” he replied. “But I think this’ll work better with the piano.” He nodded at her instrument, and there was a moment where she looked thoughtful – as if she hadn’t realised this herself. Bellamy sat down on a spare stool and started strumming, tuning the guitar and trying not to heat up under Clarke’s gaze. They weren’t friends, dammit – they just played their instruments together because neither of their _actual_ friends could.

“You want to lead?” she asked, when he finally looked up. Bellamy nodded. “Cool, I’ll follow along.” Bellamy started off with a simple chord progression, letting the strings vibrate through his fingers and down his spine. After a moment, Clarke joined in. It was different, playing together – it was beautiful, it was _right_ , but it was different. Their music became more structured – similar to that of them playing the piano together; like they had a plan of where the song was going, and not just letting the music take them freely to new, unexplored plains.

Bellamy had to say, he liked this just as much.

It wasn’t long when he started to sing along – words that he’d written before and stashed under the false bottom of his desk drawer – the lyrics working perfectly with the chords they played together.

“ _He said son/have you seen the world?/Well what would you say/if I said that you could?/Just carry this gun/You’ll even get paid/I said that sounds pretty good…”_ Bellamy had always known he could sing – he did it under his breath whenever he played the guitar; he sang in the shower and as he completed homework, sometimes on his runs when the music would just be too good _not_ to sing along to – but it was never quite like this.

It was never with Clarke looking up sharply, surprised and amazed that his voice, so low and so soft, could sound like this. It was never with her staring, having to switch between glancing at the keys of the piano and watching his face as he grew more confident with his voice.

“ _A hero of war/yeah that’s what I’ll be./And when I come home/they’ll be damn proud of me./I’ll carry this flag/to the grave if I must/but it’s a flag that I love/and a flag I trust…”_ Clarke didn’t know the lyrics but she mouthed them along with him, just after, trying to memorise them as they played.

The store felt different – the dull yellow bulbs felt white, and the dingy unwashed windows like a smoke screen. They were private; secluded and happy in their own little bubble, Bellamy nodding when they changed progressions and Clarke following along, adding her own little flare to the originally simple song. It was heartfelt – broken and emotional under their strain and their playing; but it was _them_ , in some odd, unidentifiable way.

Bellamy didn’t want to question it – he didn’t want to figure out why he felt like he was flying when he was playing with a girl he didn’t even _know_ , not really.

“ _She walked/through bullets and haze/I asked her to stop/I begged her to stay./But she pressed on/so I lifted my gun/and I fired away…”_ Throughout the song, Clarke’s eyes were wide as saucers, not simply _listening_ to the lyrics – but feeling them in and knowing them in a way that only Bellamy thought he would. “ _And the shells/jumped through the smoke/and into the sand/that the blood now had soaked./She collapsed/a flag in her hand/a flag white as snow…”_

When the song came to an end, it was silent for a moment. Bellamy coughed, just to break the tension, and Clarke looked over at him, eyes watery.

“God, Bellamy,” she said. “Did you write that?” He nodded, sheepishly – he knew it wasn’t a great song, why would he sing it for her, why would he even bother- “That was fucking beautiful.”

Bellamy didn’t know he could smile so hard; that his face could ever crack under the pressure of being so happy, so elated, so over-joyed. But here he was, and here she was, and it had started ten years before with a little girl with blonde ringlets and a boy with impeccable manners but a short fuse, and now here they were, continuing it as a girl with perfect posture and a boy with a heart too full to fit in his chest.

Bellamy wondered why they hadn’t been doing this all along.

-

They kept playing – because playing was all they knew and it was everything they wanted to do. Octavia watched, side-eyeing suspiciously, as Clarke arrived at the store, every weekend, all weekend, to play the piano beside Bellamy on the guitar and make music no one had ever heard before. They couldn’t help it – they just couldn’t stop. Not when it was all so strong; so powerful – bubbling up in their chests and threatening to destroy them if they didn’t release the sound that was curling around their souls.

Watching Clarke during lunch turned into him joining her at the piano. Instead of helping her write down her compositions, they changed into writing _their_ compositions; their songs. Ones that they would play on the weekends when Bellamy had a guitar – ones they would be humming absently through class, stopping abruptly when they realised what they were doing.

Bellamy opened the false bottom of his drawer in the room that he and Octavia shared, and pulled out song after song; ones that he placed in front of Clarke at lunch and watched her look over. His notes weren’t as tidy as hers, but she made sense of them; added to them, expanded and made them something that he wasn’t afraid of other people hearing.

Not all of them were slow and acoustic; piano-ready and perfect for the way that she played. Some were loud and angry – they were screaming into a microphone and letting the echoes bounce of the walls; slamming drumsticks down and playing the strings until your fingers bleed. When Clarke read those ones, she would look at him silently afterwards. “I don’t know how to play this,” she would tell him. “But I really want to learn.”

He handed her a bass, not long after they begin this way, and he started teaching her. They spent their weekend sessions evenly split between her sitting at her piano, back straight, head held high, and them on the floor, basses across their laps and Bellamy feeling a tingling in his fingers whenever he adjusted hers on the frets.

He stopped lying to himself one night, lying in bed with her music swirling around his head. They were friends – they were friends and they made beautiful music and her laugh tilted sideways across his mind whenever he thought of nothing, and her smile was the most goddamn beautiful thing he could think of. They were friends and Bellamy knew the yearning in his chest for something more would have to be ignored – he couldn’t let it take over, not when they were only holding onto their friendship by their music, he was sure. He couldn’t want for something more when he was barely grasping why she stuck around when he was nothing but horrible to her.

-

They were playing, one lunch time, in the auditorium. Clarke was laughing as Bellamy sang – something he was making up on the spot. It was light and happy; upbeat music where Clarke bobbed along with the tune and there was movement and joy coursing through her body that even Bellamy could see.

When they stopped, they both fell into a fit of laughter, Clarke shaking her head as she grinned. “What the hell was that?” she asked.

“You try writing songs,” he replied with a laugh. “It’s not easy.”

“No one writes songs about having a barbeque, though,” she told him. “Especially not about there ‘being more meat at my BBQ than in Sausage Party’.” Bellamy snorted in his laughter, which make Clarke’s start up again.

“Okay, that was probably a lie though, because Sausage Party is one hundred percent meat, and my barbeque at least has a vegetarian option.” There was this feeling of joy in his chest, in the laughter that didn’t stop coming, in the way their faces were red and nothing felt contained for them. It wasn’t like a door opening; it was a floodgate – an entire dam just crashing under the weight of the water, spilling out and taking over.

It was a moment where Bellamy thought he could kiss her and she wouldn’t mind. Clarke had that look in her eye – something that said she wouldn’t mind if they were more; if they could be happy together. He was so close; so close to leaning forward and brushing his lips against hers, mumbling out an apology if she darted away, but pressing closer if she didn’t. He was so close to answering his questions – his _will we, won’t we_ , his want of the girl who knew every answer in class, who could spit out scathing remarks, who could brush her fingers so _lightly_ across his skin that he wasn’t sure if it even happened.

But he didn’t kiss her. He wasn’t given the chance.

“ _This_ is lunch time detention?” A voice asked, effectively breaking the laughter and making their smiles fade. Their heads shot around to the chairs that made up their empty audience – empty apart from three figures, wandering down the steps. Murphy, Mbege and Miller walked into the light, watching them curiously. Murphy was glaring. “You’ve been lying to us for a year,” he stated. “Lying to us to come and hang out with _the Princess_?”

Murphy spit out the words like they were poison in his mouth.

“We play music, Murphy,” Bellamy told him. He didn’t want to make this out to be anything more than it was – but it was more, it was so much more that he couldn’t explain. Bellamy didn’t want to understate either, but Murphy wouldn’t understand and maybe Clarke wasn’t ready to hear it.

“ _You play music_ ,” he repeated, dry. “Wow, what fun.”

“Murphy,” Miller said quietly. “Chill, for fucks sake.”

“No, he lied to us!” Murphy said, spinning to face Miller. “Did you know he wasn’t in detention?”

“I assumed,” Miller said. Murphy stared at him questioningly. “I’m with him like ninety eight percent of the time, he really doesn’t get _this_ many detentions.” Murphy froze for a second before huffing.

“Whatever.” The anger drained a little from his body, but it was still there, simmering. “Are you any good?” Clarke snorted.

“We’ve both been playing since we could walk,” she replied, an unimpressed expression on her face and her back straight as a pole. “ _Of course_ we’re good.”

“Prove it,” Murphy replied. Maybe there wasn’t a point to it – maybe there wasn’t a reason for his friends to hear him play, other than to show them that he wasn’t lying for any bad reason other to come and do what he loves. Maybe this was Murphy, asking for answers, wanting to see if this was worth every time Bellamy told him the same lie, needing to understand in a way that Bellamy, nor Clarke, could explain.

So his friends sat down in the front row and Clarke shot Bellamy a wary look – an _is this okay with you?_ He nodded, so she did too and they both faced the piano.

The song they played was just them and the keys – Bellamy playing a tune on the low notes, and Clarke harmonising on the high. They didn’t have to prove themselves to Murphy, but at the same time, Bellamy _wanted_ to. He wanted to make him see – wanted to show him what Bellamy was capable of. Their music started off slow, and they found their rhythm, their pace, and soon it sped up, becoming something of wonder and dreams; tingling high notes making the lower ones sound more real, more vibrant.

There was a story they were telling in the music; an image that came to mind when they began, of people falling – falling from the heavens and letting their bodies crunch on the ground where they landed. Still, these people would stand, they would rise and fight, fight, fight, Bellamy’s fingers and Clarke’s gentle swaying as their weapons. Bellamy couldn’t _see_ the story, but he could _feel_ it; could feel their fear, their happiness, their pain, right in his chest. He could feel the knot unfurling, the emotions opening like a flower, before swimming through his blood stream, out onto the piano.

He wasn’t aware when they stopped, but there was silence – something so shatteringly fragile after they’d just created a symphony. Then the clapping; his friends watching and standing, clapping and clapping and clapping.

“Not mad anymore, huh?” Miller asked Murphy, who elbowed him in return. Bellamy grinned; wide and happy and relieved, as Clarke smiled back at him. They were just two people, but goddamn it they created a universe together.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> things happen feat. murphy

It turned out, Murphy _could_ drum for shit. Sometimes he was a little sloppy, but he had fun with it – his back beats were solid and the drum solos he performed in the store the next weekend could _literally_ bring the old house down. It was impressive.

The three of them sat in the store; Bellamy strumming out a tune he’d been working on and Clarke following along on the bass. Murphy joined in with a drum beat and something felt _right_. It was Murphy, sure, and he was an asshole the vast majority of the time – but it was _right._ It was the same level of feeling that he got with playing with just Clarke; but this time not as intimate. Bellamy loved it anyway, and Octavia came down into the shop half an hour in with a raised eyebrow.

“What’s going on?” she asked, the store empty bar the four of them.

“Murphy can play the drums,” Bellamy replied. The outright _joy_ on his face was probably enough of a sign for Octavia to laugh.

“I thought none of your friends could play,” she said. Bellamy shrugged.

“This asshole was holding out on me.” Murphy shrugged behind the drum kit.

“I live to displease people,” he told them, before standing. “I’m hungry – mind if I steal your food?” Bellamy shrugged and Murphy nodded, letting himself upstairs to their apartment as the bell by the door chimed. A customer entered and Octavia went over to the counter, to help them out.

“He’s actually pretty good,” Clarke said when they were alone again. Bellamy nodded. “Think you can get him to stop calling me ‘Princess’?” He laughed, shrugging.

“I can try – but the best I could get you is ‘Princess’ in a fond tone.” Clarke nodded slowly.

“I’ll take it,” she decided. Bellamy smiled at her. They were both sitting on the piano stool, thighs pressed up against one another, the shop finally quiet apart from Octavia’s voice at the other end. “Who would have thought we could be friends?” she asked into the quiet. Bellamy stared straight ahead, swallowing.

“Eight year old me, probably,” he replied. Clarke exhaled a laugh. “We seem to be forming a band,” he pointed out, looking over to Murphy’s backpack leaned up against the wall. Clarke followed his gaze and nodded.

“It’s not the worst thing,” she replied. “Bands are like little families, but with music.” Bellamy smiled over at her, his hands a little clammy and his head _very_ aware of how close they were.

“So you wouldn’t mind if Murphy came back?” Clarke paused before shaking her head.

“If he’s not a dick, he can stay.”

“That’s gonna be hard,” Bellamy pointed out. “He is a dick basically all the time.” Clarke nodded, relenting.

“Okay, fair. If he’s not a dick for sixty percent of the time or more, then he can stay.”

“And the other forty?”

“I expect he’ll make the most out of being a grade A asshole,” Clarke smirked. The two of them laughed before Murphy came back downstairs with a packet of Oreos in one hand (and one stuffed in his mouth), and three soda cans stacked on top of each other in the other.

“I brought sustenance,” he said, swallowing the biscuit. Bellamy looked over to Clarke, who was both surprised but smiling.

“If this is the sixty percent,” she said, standing up. “He can definitely stay.”

-

Murphy agreed to being in the band only if he got final say on the name. ‘Final say’ just meant that he had to approve any and all names they had – which, well it was going to be a group decision anyway, so Murphy already had that role and gained no actual authority or power from joining them. Still, he was with them, and it was new and different, but they worked together anyway.

Bellamy had briefly discussed the band with his sister, who’d said that she _would_ join, but she was already in an all-girl group with these others girls that she knew. O was the youngest in the band (by a few years in some cases), but Anya, Indra and Emori and Lexa really knew what they were doing, so she wasn’t worried. (Bellamy wasn’t either – he and Lexa were good friends and _goddamn_ he should have started a band sooner so he could get her in on it.)

It just meant that they needed to look elsewhere for a guitarist.

For the first day in at least a year, Bellamy didn’t go to the auditorium at lunch, and neither did Clarke. Instead, she walked with him and his friends through the hall, only partly trying to think of another musician, whilst also talking about a film they’d watched at the weekend at his place, when rehearsal was over.

The inane rivalry between the two was sort of legendary in Ark High, and Bellamy had to actively avoid looking at the people who were already staring, confused at them. He didn’t want to have the discussion again – he didn’t want to explain to anyone that they had had a truce the entire time, that he actually _liked_ her (and probably a little more than just as friends).

They met up with her friends down the hall, and Miller took Bryan’s hand almost immediately, Harper and Monroe joining them without question as they walked. They had become a large group; somehow easily slotting into place and finding their rhythm without really trying. The only reason they didn’t do this before was because of Bellamy and Clarke, and he felt a slight pang in his chest that _he_ was the reason they’d missed out on this for so long.

“Where’s Raven?” Clarke asked, looking over at her friends. Harper shrugged, interlacing her fingers with Monroe’s.

“Music room, I think,” Monroe replied.

“Why?”

Bryan spoke up, “I think there’s a busted speaker and she’s fixing it for them, so they don’t have to pay out for it.”

“Want to go there, then?” Bellamy asked. Clarke nodded, and their friends followed along anyway; their defacto leaders taking charge and them walking along – creating a path in the hallway, people ducking out of the way to let them through. They felt bigger and stronger than they used to; being a small but intimidating group was one thing, but with all of them it was almost like a gang. The students automatically got out of their way.

In the music room, Raven was sitting at a table, her hand inside the speaker as she tried to fix the wires.

“What’s seems to be the problem, doc?” Clarke asked, leading the group inside. Raven looked up from the speaker and raised an eyebrow at the group walking in.

“Since when do you run the mafia?” she questioned in response, nodding to the leather jackets that at least half of them were wearing. (It was a style thing, no doubt, but they had already joked about getting something written on the back, just for the effect.)

“I don’t run it,” Clarke replied. “I _co-run_ it, obviously. The day Mbege does something I ask is the day hell freezes over.” Mbege laughed at the comment, splaying himself out in a chair. A few of the others sat down, too, swinging their bags off of their shoulders and pulling out food from their lunches. “But anyway.” Clarke tapped the speaker.

“There’s a fried wire,” Raven shrugged. “Nothing big, I just need to try and switch it out.” She nodded to the supplies on the table next to her. Bellamy sat down with the others, and Raven worked on the speaker as Murphy chucked a piece of food at Mbege, over the top of Harper and Monroe’s heads. They both ducked, glaring at Murphy who was laughing.

“Screw off,” Harper told him. Monroe looked over at him too, smiling now.

“Hey, you know Sterling?” she asked innocently, and the Bellamy joined in with the laughter. Murphy shot her a glare.

“Fuck off Zoe,” he said. “You don’t know anything about that.” She laughed this time.

“He lives next door to me, we’ve been best friends all our lives. Of _course_ I know about you hitting on him. Do they?” She nodded to Murphy’s friends.

“Of course they know,” Murphy replied, bitter with his arms folded.

“But do they know what happened _outside_ of school?” Bellamy paused, as did the rest of the boys.

“Outside?” he asked, leaning forwards. He glanced back at Miller, grinning feral and wild, but not in the know either. Monroe nodded and Murphy huffed.

“She’s talking shit,” he warned.

“Oh, am I?” she dared. There was a moment where they stared at each other, both challenging the other to say something, and Bellamy was grinning – _God_ they hadn’t had this much fun before. It was amazing what they were missing.

The stale mate was broken with another huffed on Murphy’s side, leaning back in his chair and looking away. He waved his hand at her, a go ahead, and she nodded.

“Sterling said Murphy was absolute crap at flirting, but they went out on a date anyway,” Monroe said, grinning and almost giddy. Bellamy’s eyes flickered over to Harper, watching her with a soft smile. “They went out to the diner, by the motor way? Where the food is like sludge? And Murphy totally paid for their meal-“

“Wait, Murphy can be a _decent_ human being?” Mbege asked, making Murphy roll his eyes.

“Don’t speak so soon,” he warned, nodding at Monroe to continue the story. She nodded once again.

“As they were leaving, they started making out, and they fucking _did it_ in the alley behind the diner.” Bellamy, along with a few others, laughed and cheered. Miller wolf whistled and Murphy rolled his eyes, batting Bryan’s hand away when he nudged him.

“Alright, alright,” he said, rolling his eyes again. Still, he was smiling a little. “Shut up, assholes.”

“Are you two still going out?” Miller asked him, and Murphy shook his head.

“Nah, finished pretty quickly,” he replied.

“I bet that’s what Sterling said,” Harper grinned, the group breaking off into cheers once more. They checked with Monroe anyway, because Murphy had lied about it before, and she agreed.

“Yeah, Sterling said Murphy wasn’t ‘boyfriend material’,” she told them. Murphy mocked being offended, and everything was felt right – felt like this should have been happening long before it did.

“I think I’ve got it,” Raven said, a minute or two later, stepping back from the speaker. She picked up an electric guitar, plugging it into the speaker that she placed on the ground. Raven strummed a few quick chords, smiling to herself when the speaker sounded them out perfectly. With one quick look over to Clarke, Bellamy could tell that she was watching Raven in the same way he was.

“Do you play?” she asked, nodding to the guitar. Raven shrugged.

“Yeah – haven’t I ever told you that?” Clarke exhaled a grin, looking over to Bellamy.

“No, you never mentioned.” Bellamy glanced up at Murphy, who was smirking with a nod.

“What?” Raven asked, oblivious. Clarke moved over to her friend, slinging an arm around her shoulder.

“How would you like to be in a band?” Raven snorted, but hell, it was obvious that the word ‘band’ was sinking through her skull in a heartbeat.

-

Raven Reyes has never stepped foot into Blake Music, and it’s actually Bellamy’s mother who greets her, because she’s ten minutes early and Bellamy was getting a snack. He was sticking the entire sandwich into his mouth, trying to eat it in as little bites as possible when Raven opened the door on the landing of the staircase from the store, and stepped into his home. She walked into the light of the apartment slowly, looking around, before spotting him in the kitchen.

He froze, caught in the act, as she snorted.

“Cute, Blake,” she smiled. “And I thought you were supposed to be the attractive one of your friends.” He held up a finger, chewing through the sandwich and trying not to choke as Raven watched on, amused. After, he cleared his throat.

“Actually, I believe Murphy has a certain type of _je ne sais quoi_ about him,” he replied, pinching his fingers together. Raven raised a single eyebrow.

“You know the definition of that is ‘I don’t know what’, right?” He paused before nodding.

“Sure, I don’t know what it is about Murphy but he’s got a nice ass and good hair,” Bellamy smirked in reply, taking a more… _appropriate_ bite out of the sandwich, now Raven was watching. She settled herself into the sofa as she snorted.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she replied. “You know there’s a rumour that you two dated, right?” Bellamy nodded, placing his plate in the sink. He went and joined her on the sofa as he swallowed.

“Yeah – all rumours have a hint of truth to them, though.” She raised an eyebrow at him.

“Oh, yeah? And what ‘hint’ would that be?” He shrugged.

“When we were like, sixteen, I think? We used to make out a lot.”

“Really?” He nodded.

“I think that’s when he was first realising he was into guys. I was just helping him with the transition.” Raven smiled, amused before nodding.

“So, you, Murphy and Clarke are all bisexual, too? This is literally a bisexuals only band?” Bellamy grinned.

“It’s not like we _set out_ to be exclusive,” he joked. “It’s just the way it happened.” The front door opened again and Murphy walked in, swinging his backpack off of his shoulders and letting it land in the middle of the floor, where anyone could trip over it. He climbed into his favourite armchair (it had stains of food and alcohol, the material was ripped and repaired badly all over the place, and Bellamy was pretty sure a cat had given birth on that chair, but it was where he always sat anyway).

“What are we talking about?” he asked.

“We used to make out,” Bellamy replied. Murphy nodded appreciatively.

“Oh, yeah. Good times.” Raven looked between them before rolling her eyes. “Where’s the Princess, anyway?” Raven glared at him at the nickname – Bellamy noting her protectiveness of Clarke – before looking away. (He also reminded himself to ask Murphy to say it in a more fond tone in the future.)

“I don’t know, late I assume.”

“Never thought she would be late,” Murphy mumbled, just as the door clicked open again.

“Thanks, Ms Blake,” Clarke called back, shutting the door behind her. She took three steps into the living room before stumbling over Murphy’s backpack. The two boys snickered as Raven pressed her fist against her mouth to keep herself from laughing. Clarke glared half-heartedly, kicking the bag to the side.

“Hey, be careful with that,” Murphy said. “There are fireworks in there and I don’t want them ruined.”

“Why the hell have you got fireworks in your bag?” Clarke asked incredulously, taking a seat in the other armchair, the four of them around the coffee table. Murphy rolled his eyes like it was obvious.

“I’m going to set them off in the woods later with Jordan and Green.” Clarke and Raven didn’t recognise the names but Bellamy raised his eyebrows.

“Jasper and Monty? Really?” Murphy nodded.

“Yeah, they sell the best _medication_ I’ve ever had,” he replied. “Just makes sense to provide them with something in return.”

“Fireworks,” Clarke said plainly. “You supply them with _fireworks_ and they give you weed?” Murphy shrugged.

“I never said they’re particularly bright – especially as they invited me along to be setting them off, too.” Bellamy rolled his eyes, deciding to change the topic.

“Right, band business.” They hadn’t practiced together as a full group yet, but they’d watched Raven play in the music room, and they knew it would work – it was like a gut feeling; something tugging at them to one another, to the music they could produce.

The group looked to him, and he continued, “band name.” This then started a ten minute silence, every thirty seconds someone piping up a barely-there idea that they weren’t too sure about in the first place.

“The John Murphy Experience.”

“Ar….kadia?”

“Bellamy Blake and the Back Up Singers.”

“The ‘B’ In ‘LGBT’.”

Clarke looked at Raven, confused, who replied with a grin. “Literally a group of bisexuals,” she explained, gesturing to them all. Clarke nodded, surprised but appreciative.

“That’s the best name so far,” she said.

It kept on like this until Octavia walked up from the shop. She looked around them and rolled her eyes.

“What a band practice,” she told them dryly. “Look at all the music.”

“Shut up, O,” Bellamy groaned. “We’re thinking of band names.” Octavia came to stop behind the sofa, her arms folded on the back of the furniture, leaning above her brother.

“How about ‘This Band Sucks’?” she suggested.

“Loving the vote of confidence,” Murphy replied sarcastically, and Octavia grinned at him.

“Alright, alright,” she relented.

“What’s your band called?” Clarke asked her, and Bellamy glanced up to see Octavia caught off guard, not knowing that Clarke would remember something she’d said absently.

“Grounders,” she replied after a beat. “It was already called that when I joined – it’s not too bad, huh?” They were all silent again, looking about the room to find inspiration. When nothing came, Octavia shrugged.

“Ooh, Murph,” she said, looking over to Bellamy’s friend. “Jasper texted to say you’re coming to the woods?” Murphy nodded, still a little distracted by the main task at hand. “Want to walk with me? I’m going over at four.”

Murphy checked the time. “Yeah, sounds good.”

“You two are actually friends?” Raven questioned.

“Murphy’s been Bell’s friend since the dawn of time,” Octavia replied, straightening. “We get along just fine.”

“And _Murphy_ ,” Bellamy continued “is going to look out for Octavia whilst they get high in the woods _because_ we’ve been friends since the dawn of time.” He shot Murphy a pointed look and his friend nodded, rolling his eyes like there was no universe where he _wasn’t_ going to look after Octavia.

“Obviously,” Murphy replied. Octavia smiled.

“I’ll leave you to your issue,” she said. “I’ll see you later.” As she wandered away, Bellamy sighed.

“I already had ninety nine reasons to think that it’s a terrible idea for Octavia to go and get high in the woods,” he said, more to himself than to any of the others. “Now I have one more. Number one hundred: Murphy is involved.”

His friends laughed and he sighed once more, looking over to where Clarke’s eyes had lit up, and she was staring at Raven with this look that meant they were totally talking telepathically. Murphy and Bellamy glanced at each other, confused, before the girls looked over.

“The 100,” Clarke said. “There was already ninety nine reasons why this idea was slightly bad from the start-“ _they never got along, they’d spent years being enemies, Raven scared him a little_ “but the one hundredth reason why this band could be a bad idea, is that Murphy is in it.”

Even Murphy, with his final say, agreed.

-

The band rehearsals were something magical. Bellamy hadn’t really expected it to be that way – he assumed they’d fight and struggle; have issues keeping time and pace, and Murphy or Raven would storm off at least once. But no – it wasn’t like that at all.

“It means we’re meant to be,” Clarke told him, smirk on her lips and a playful look in her eye. Bellamy probably would have kissed her if Murphy hadn’t started up her drumming again.

They played the songs that Clarke and Bellamy wrote – Bellamy had a knack for lyrics, Clarke for music – and Murphy tended to just look them over after, saying that this line could be better, or that one needed work, whilst Raven just questioned, over and over, _do I get a guitar solo?_

They worked as a team, and it showed. Their rehearsals were often interrupted by customers, especially when no one else was able to watch the store, but they didn’t mind. Or, at least, they only minded when the customer wanted to buy or look at the instruments they were _playing_.

Clarke switched out between bass and piano, depending on the song, but by the end of the session she’d always be sitting by the keys, her fingers tapping away lightly and beautifully, creating quiet and perfect tunes as Murphy slung his backpack over his shoulder and Raven wrote a memo in her phone about their next practice.

Clarke and Bellamy would always be the last ones; he’d always watch her, smiling at the others as they left, before turning her attention back to the music at hand. Her back would be straight, but her head bowed, as if the song couldn’t hold her up; as if it was too gentle a caress across her bones to be something she could look up over. She was beautiful in those moments – maybe more so than the rest of the time; her hair loose and wavy about her shoulders, as opposed to tied up and tidy at school; her shoes were usually lying on the floor somewhere, as she preferred to play barefooted, and her rings would be lined up across the music shelf, where the music papers would usually rest.

She’d always catch him watching eventually; soft smile and lingering eyes, before her cheeks would turn pink and she’d look away. Bellamy played that image through his mind a lot.

-

They hit the summer and they hit it hard. The 100 had been playing together for over six months, and their final exams had been and gone, taking out bigger chunks of their time than they had wished. But now was the time to be free; to work on their music every day, in the shop with Bellamy often still in his pyjamas and working the store at the same time anyway.

Aurora brought down their lunch every day, handing them plates of sandwiches and drinks, as Murphy performed a drum solo and Raven laughed. It was happy, gentle, wild – it was everything they wanted to be. There were no strings attached to them anymore; nothing holding them down or back. The looks they used to get in the hallways long gone – everyone was aware that Bellamy Blake and Clarke Griffin had not only buried the hatchet but performed an entire funeral for the damn thing. It was scary, though, for anyone on the outside – together, Bellamy and Clarke were a force to be reckoned with; they could level cities, walk on water, take on the universe if they had each other.

Somehow, that was just _known_. Even Clarke was aware, Bellamy was sure, and she liked to seem oblivious to anyone’s thoughts of them bar her own (which Bellamy was still not privy to).

Together, they persuaded Miller and his endless supply of contacts (no one questioned how he had them) to book them gigs; to let them play and _pay_ them for it. They were then on stages, with audiences watching them sing songs they knew by heart, their words like claws at their spine, but sinking in oh so sweetly. They were a tidal wave of heart and soul in every chord and line, and it was more than they had expected – _they_ were more than they had expected.

May and June passed in a heartbeat, and they’d conquered Ark. They had gigs every few days and people turned up for them each and every time – their online pages had thousands of likes, and suddenly they weren’t four kids playing in a music store every day; they were four kids playing on stage for people who were _singing their songs back to them_.

Bellamy still worked the shop counter most days anyway; it was busier now. People in town wanted to know where they’d bought their kit, where they practiced, where they were based, and they were always sent in the direction of Blake Music. The store was no longer silent, it had _customers_ , and Bellamy watched his mother light up at the sight of the sales, ordering in more instruments and kissing his cheek from joy which was something she hadn’t done in far too long.

They were good, they were okay – July was a month where they took on Mount Weather, thirty minutes from home, and August was TonDC, a little further away. They were going to take on the world, one town at a time until everyone was there for them.

There was the day in September – the 6th, to be exact – when a man appeared in the store, Raven shredding on the guitar and Murphy banging along on the drums. Clarke was laughing, her skirt flying gracefully about her as she span under the new white lights that Aurora had installed. Bellamy watched them from the counter, printing out the day’s receipts and stapling them together.

He didn’t hear the doorbell chime over his friends, but he saw the man, dressed in a suit and tie, walking with purpose over to the counter.

“Sorry, we’re closed,” Bellamy said, only glancing up.

“I’m not here to buy anything,” the stranger replied. Bellamy looked up again now, leaning on the counter by his elbows. In the corner of the store, Murphy stopped drumming to prove to Clarke that he could throw his sticks and catch them. One hit the wall and landed on the ground and Clarke shrieked in laughter.

“Are you from the bank?” Bellamy asked. The man opened his mouth to respond, but he kept talking anyway. “Because my Mum said she posted the money? We actually have it now – the foreclosure isn’t needed anymore.”

“I’m not from the bank,” the man said. Bellamy paused, frowning. “My name is Marcus Kane – I’m a music producer from ARK Records.” Bellamy froze entirely, staring at this man (this amazing, wonderful, life-changing man). Murphy tried to throw the sticks again, but this time it hit Raven and she stopped playing to swear him out in Spanish.

Marcus Kane clicked his fingers in front of Bellamy, who moved into motion again.

“S-sorry, yeah, how can I help you?” Marcus Kane smiled pleasantly, like he got that reaction a lot.

“I’m here to discuss The 100 – you’re the front man, correct? Bellamy Blake?” Bellamy nodded hurriedly. “We’ve had our eye on your band for a few months now, and we’d like to talk to you about the possibility of signing and producing a debut album?”

Bellamy’s mouth was dry, he couldn’t speak, just open and close his mouth a few times as he nodded. He was usually a charmer; he could persuade his way out of jail if he tried hard enough he was sure – but this, goddamn this was too big a deal for him to function properly.

“Yes?” Marcus Kane smiled, almost a grin. Bellamy nodded some more. “Great! Is that the band over there?” Bellamy nodded again. “Oh, good – you know I only watched you live once, and I was very far back in the crowd. I still enjoyed the show though, of course.” He wandered over to where the rest of the band was calming down and Murphy was with his drumsticks again, twirling them around his fingers.

Bellamy followed Marcus dumbly behind.

The band stopped to look at them, and Marcus smiled.

“Marcus!” Clarke exclaimed happily.

“Clarke,” he smiled. Bellamy frowned.

“You know each other?” Clarke darted forward, wrapping her arms around Marcus in a hug. They grinned at each other.

“This is my God-father, Marcus Kane,” she said as an introduction. “What are you doing here?”

“Well,” he smiled. “As I was just saying to Mr. Blake, ARK Records would like to consider signing The 100 onto our label.”

Bellamy swore it was dead silent for all of three seconds. Then anarchy ensued. There was screaming and cheering – the drums banging loudly, Raven jumping up and down squealing (which – Raven Reyes doesn’t squeal, _ever_ ). Clarke pulled away from Marcus, jumping and screaming, and practically _tackled_ Bellamy into a hug, which he returned just as forcefully. Marcus laughed as he watched them, joyous and thankful, happy and okay, for one time in their goddamn lives.

-

Their album was everything they were. It was loud, painful, beautiful, emotional, angry – it was The 100. They took their most popular songs – the ones that defined summer and friendship and sitting on beaches with water brushing at your toes, and on rooftops with the wind in your hair, and they recorded them over and over and over until it was exactly right.

“What about the other five?” Marcus asked, looking over their list so far. They were half way through November and Bellamy could remember a time, so clearly, when he worked so hard in his classes just to get into a good university, and here he was, deferring.  He looked at the others, who all shrugged.

“I’m thinking more personal songs for those ones,” he decided. “The album’s theme is about fixing yourself, so I don’t see why we shouldn’t have something that relates to us.” Marcus nodded slowly.

“Do you have any lyrics worked up for that?” Bellamy nodded.

“Yeah, we can test some out in the booth if you want?”

“Yeah, let’s do that. Also, Clarke was mentioning a song you wrote a while ago-“ Marcus clicked his fingers, trying to remember. “ _Hero of War_?” Bellamy nodded. “Yes, she played me some of that; I think we should try that one too.”

Bellamy caught Clarke’s smile as he headed into the booth with the band, setting up on their instruments.

“Which one is _Hero of War_?” Murphy asked, and Bellamy shuffled about the papers he had stacked.

“It’s acoustic,” he replied, looking for the music. He knew it off-by-heart, but Clarke might want them for the piano – it sounded incredible, piano by his side; far better than just with the one guitar.

“Does that mean I can get some sleep?” Bellamy snorted at Murphy’s question. They’d spent the past week living in the studio – at first, there was a lot of politics surrounding being signed, but the second they got into the studio, they never wanted to leave. After writing and rewriting for a few weeks, they decided just to camp out there until they could get the majority of the album recorded – and, well, it’s been an experience.

“Depends if we’re doing that one next,” Clarke replied, pressing her fingers down onto random keys of the piano. “You said you had some personal ones written?” Bellamy nodded.

“Only about me and O, though,” he replied. “I was thinking…” he stood up, leaning against the padded walls, and glanced out of the window. Marcus and the sound technician had disappeared, so he looked back to his friends. “We all have our sob stories, right? Why don’t we each take a song? I mean, we’re going on this journey and stuff – starting a new page; we could honour the old chapters by each taking a song about it. Then the fifth goes to _Hero of War_?”

The group was quiet for a moment, mulling over the proposal, before they nodded.

“Yeah, okay,” Raven agreed. “I never knew my Dad and my Mum was a raging alcoholic.” The others nodded – it was fair to say that they all knew each other’s lives pretty damn well by this point.

“Alright,” Murphy said. “But I was hoping for dibs on the alcoholic mother.” He smirked, leaning back on his seat against the wall. Raven barked out a laugh.

“You have the dead Dad, card,” she said.

“So does Clarke though, and she grew up with a silver spoon in her ass, so I assume that’s what her song would be about.” Bellamy shot a wary look at Clarke, who didn’t even look offended – instead, she just shrugged and nodded. Bellamy guessed she’d really gotten used to Murphy, during the time they’d been a band.

“That and the dead childhood best friend story,” she replied. “But to be fair, _John_ -“ Murphy wrinkled up his nose at Clarke’s revenge for the comment. “Your dad went to prison, too – you could totally use that.”

“Blake,” Murphy said. “Did your dad go to prison?” Bellamy shook his head – he had no idea what happened to his dad. “Fine, I’ll take _my father went to prison for stealing money so he could afford the operation to save my life_.” He sent Clarke a dry look, who at least had the decency to look sheepish.

“That’s what he went to jail for?” Raven asked, surprised. Murphy nodded. “How did you get the operation in the end?”

“Mum took out a loan from the bank that she’s still paying off,” he replied with a shrug. Murphy stared at his drum set for a second. “You think, if this actually works out for us, there’ll be enough money to pay that back?”

For that single moment, the room was silent as John Murphy was vulnerable. This never happened, and God did Bellamy’s heart break for him. Murphy was all steal cages and concrete walls surrounding anything that could be serious; protecting him from get hurt, or feeling afraid or bad, or lonely-

Clarke stepped away from her piano, padding over in her bare feet to meet Murphy behind the drum kit. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, pulling him in for a hug as he rolled his eyes.

“I’m going to use my first pay check to pay for my Mum’s therapy,” Raven said, quietly, a loud confession in the tiny studio. She joined Clarke and Murphy in the hug behind the drum kit, and Bellamy watched, his heart tearing in two for these people; for his _favourite_ people.

“Bell,” Clarke said, releasing Murphy with one of her arms and holding it out for him. He sighed good-naturedly, rolling his eyes, before heading over and joining in the hug. They stayed that way for a moment; relishing in the warmth and the love, Bellamy ignoring the sparks from where Clarke’s skin touched his, and Murphy pretending that he was above all of it. They smiled; their heads pressed together and their hearts as one.

When they pulled back, Bellamy nodded to the door. “We’ll do _Hero of War_ first,” he said. “Go get some sleep.”

-

“Can you help me?” Clarke asked. It was a day later – or, a night later, as it was three AM and Raven and Murphy were crashed out on the sofas in the other room and Bellamy was going over chord progressions for one of the almost finished songs. He looked up from where he had the single lamp, lighting the corner of the room. Clarke stood in a large jumper that swamped her body (he could have sworn it was his), and shorts that only peaked out the bottom of it. Her feet were bare; toe nails painted blue and lines of permanent market drawn across her skin, courtesy of Murphy when he was bored not long before.

“Yeah, sure, what’s up?” Clarke lifted up some papers in her hand. He could see the markings of music notes, scribbled words, crossed out and re-written over and over again. After a moment, she handed them over.

The tops of the pages all said the same thing: _Dear Daughter_.

“Is this the song you’re writing?” Bellamy asked. Whilst they were all writing a song about their own personal experiences (which felt like a good idea until he actually sat down and tried to explain going hungry most days for years; giving his food to his sister so she could eat whilst the store was failing, and father figures walking in and out of his life like a revolving door of disappointment), they were all still coming to him for the lyrics. Sure, Murphy could write semi-decent poetry (something which came as a shock for everyone), but he wasn’t great with songs, and Raven was good with neither.

Clarke nodded, fiddling with her hands and pulling at her sleeves.

“I wanted to write something from my father, for me,” she replied. “The things he used to tell me, you know? But it’s not going great and there’s no structure to it.” Bellamy nodded, swallowing a little. He felt like he was invading her privacy, reading these words – something she and her father shared so personally. But the point was to share these feelings with the world; let each person who listened attach their own meanings to their lyrics, and take their own stories from the songs.

“Let’s go into the studio,” Bellamy decided. “There’s more light in there.” Clarke nodded, padding in ahead of him as Bellamy picked up his mug of coffee, taking another sip.

He laid out the papers on top of the piano, when they were sitting at the stool, sharing like they had been for so long.

“It’s good,” he said after a beat, reading over the lyrics. “You’ve written it in a lower octave?”

“Well you’ll be singing it,” Clarke replied. “So I think it’ll be easier for it to be done that way. I can do harmonies, if you want, but my voice isn’t strong enough for the lead.” Bellamy nodded slowly – Clarke was a good singer, and when Bellamy heard her sing, his stomach would flip and his skin would set fire to itself. But Clarke preferred singing back up, and if that was something she wanted to do, he wouldn’t stop her.

“But you like the music?” She nodded. “Let’s start with that then.” Clarke slipped the papers onto the shelf, and began to play. The door was shut and the microphones weren’t on – no one would hear them in the studio. Clarke played and Bellamy read the lyrics through, then they went again and this time he sang them, but they weren’t slipping seamlessly into the song.

He picked up her pen, and together they rewrote the words, shifted the song, spending hours poring over the lyrics in front of them. Time sped past them and soon the sun was rising, filtering light into the lounge and through the window into the studio. Raven was at the door first, yawning in her pyjamas.

“Have you two been awake all night?” she asked. Bellamy glanced at his coffee – he’d lost track a few hours before of how many he’d drunk. He nodded.

“Something like that.” Raven rolled her eyes.

“I hope you’ve got something good out of it.”

“Me too,” Clarke agreed quietly, supressing a yawn. Bellamy stared at the scratchings on the page before nodding.

“I think we could try it out again.”

“I’ll get Murphy,” Raven said. A moment later she was back, a disgruntled Murphy in tow.

“What?” he groaned.

“New song,” Bellamy replied. “We’re thinking that it’ll be slower – maybe not on piano; we haven’t decided yet; but you’ll get the gist of it this way.” He nodded to Clarke and she began playing.

It was slow; careful and sure notes – her delicate fingers precise on each key. Clarke’s eyes were glued to the music in front of her as Bellamy came in with the first lines.

“ _Dear daughter/hold your head up high/there’s a world outside/that’s passing by._ ” Bellamy’s voice was raw and rough from being awake all night, but he glanced up from the sheet to see Raven leaning forward onto the piano, a smile playing about her lips. “ _Dear daughter/never lose yourself/remember that you’re like nobody else./As life throws you in/to the unknown/and you feel like you’re/ out there all alone-“_

Murphy carefully sat himself on the edge of the piano, swivelling around to watch them and crossing his legs as he went. Even he was smiling a little – the slow tune swelling up in the room and filling the air until they were breathing in the pure magic of the memory of Jake Griffin.

Bellamy started up the chorus; “ _These are words/ that every girl should have the chance to hear:/there will be love/there will be pain/there will be hope/there will be fear./And through it all year after year/stand or fall I will be right here/for you.”_

The song was everything Bellamy had wished someone would have said to Octavia as she was growing up – it was everything he tried to tell her in his warm hugs and cold nights without the heating. It was everything Bellamy had tried to pass onto her – giving her his food, helping with her homework, braiding her hair each and every morning. It was everything that he wished he had the capability to say to her when he could affect how she lived her life. It wasn’t as if he had some explicit hatred of her going into the woods with her friends and smoking and burning her diaries – it was who she was and he knew he couldn’t change that.

But Bellamy wished he’d given it more of a shot – wished he’d found some way to get through to her that the world was a kinder place than they had experienced; than they gave it credit for. Angry girl bands may be what Octavia lives and breathes, and they’re good for the heart when it’s ready to crack – but he’s never thought they were good for the soul; for filling the void and helping her accept everything her life is.

Bellamy wished he had a Jake Griffin, to say these things to her – or even Clarke, to pass the knowledge along. He’d made his peace with his sister in all her wild glory, but these words could have changed her life in the same way he felt them changing his in that moment in the studio.

“ _Dear daughter,”_ he was singing, “ _Don’t change for any man/even if he promises you the stars/and takes you by the hand.”_

Then again, Octavia probably knew it all. Sure, it wasn’t there for her when they were little and Bellamy was drowning in fear and done with staying awake all night in the bed next to his sister’s in case their mother’s boyfriend was violent like the one before had likely been – but she knew it all.

Octavia was strong and brave; talented and free. There was nothing holding her down; she was one with the stars and the moon; the wind whistling through the trees and her hair flying about her shoulders. She was everything Bellamy had wished her to be and more, and he smiled as he sung, tired and ready to fall asleep, because Clarke’s message hit him in a way it might have hit her, and he was proud of the way he’d raised his sister.

Clarke played in a gap between his singing and he nodded along. “This is where the guitars would come in,” he told his friends, tapping his hand against his thigh. “ _Dear daughter/I was just like you/and just like me/you’re gonna make it through.”_ He went back into the chorus and Clarke was smiling over at him, moving with the music now. She came in with the back-ups, like they’d tried to practice before, and he felt the world spin around them. He could taste the magic in the air; the sun on his skin; there was a light feeling in the room that made him feel like flying, and _goddammit_ , this was a good song.

“… _Through it all year after year/stand or fall I will be right here/and after all I will be right here…for you.”_ Clarke tapered off with the piano, and his friends clapped, grinning from ear to ear as he sighed with relief.

Clarke laughed, so light and so happy, and these were the words who made her the person she is. Something had gone terribly right with Clarke Griffin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Clarke and Bellamy wrote is called Dear Daughter, by Halestorm. LOVELY SONG BY THE WAY.
> 
> I also headcannon all four of these characters as bisexual so why not theyre in a bisexual band woooooo
> 
> COMMENTS AND KUDOS ARE LOVED AND APPRECIATED THANK YOU


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shorter chapter this time! the last one was 7k and this one is 4k. i just didn't know where to end it last time so it over ran. anyway, in this chapter i try to be funny and then i remember about being politically correct

It was late February when the album launched and almost overnight people from around the world started to recognise their faces. They weren’t the kids in Ark, breaking down the walls of a music store with their joy, anymore. Instead, they were bringing down stadiums, concert venues; halls packed so tightly with people that it was a wonder if any of them could breathe by themselves.

They started doing interviews, too – because people wanted to know about them, wanted to meet them and be near them; Bellamy’s face began her perpetually hurt by May, with all the smiling he had to do in photos – but it was great, it was what they wanted.

“So,” Maya Vie was saying. In her lap she had a small ring bound notebook, and on the table was a voice recorder. Clarke and Bellamy sat on a sofa opposite her, relaxed and comfortable, whilst Raven and Murphy were covering another interview across the room, on camera. It was insane; the album blew up, as did the tour, and they’re becoming known. “Your music has been set as the soundtrack for the summer,” she smiled. “How does that feel?”

“Incredible,” Clarke replied. “Honestly I didn’t think we’d be this big so fast – it’s been so amazing and so unexpected – and being a hit for the summer? God, I don’t know how to cope with that.” She was grinning, ear to ear, and Bellamy smiled down at his friend - God, his _best friend_ by this point; always there every morning and every evening, his jackets most-likely around her shoulders, her hands making his morning cup of coffee.

“Your album, _Almost There_ went gold within two months of release,” Maya read from her note book. “And is on track to go platinum by mid-summer. Your singles, _Hero of War_ and _Sister’s Keeper_ are two vastly different sounds, and they seem to bookend the album – how did that come about?”

“ _Hero of War_ was the first song I’d written that Clarke and I played together, and yeah, it’s a different sound to the rest of the album – so we put it at the start; like this basis for the rest of the set, and they all follow on, slowly getting more and more loud, angry, passionate as the tracks go on,” Bellamy replied. “We weren’t going to have _Sister’s Keeper_ as a single, though – it was originally going to be _Calm Before The Storm_ – but that one wasn’t received as well I don’t think.” He scratched at his cheek as Clarke took over.

“ _Sister’s Keeper_ is one of my favourite songs on the album,” she said, and Bellamy raised his eyebrows in surprise. “You’d think it’d be _Dear Daughter_ or something-“

“The song that you co-wrote on the album?” Maya asked. Clarke nodded.

“Yeah, but I think it’s one thing to feel this personal attachment to a song, because I’d contributed to the lyrics. I mean, I contribute to the actual music of every song, so I have that attachment there already. But _Sister’s Keeper_ is a lot of my best friend writing a song about his life, and letting out all the things he doesn’t tell anyone – even me, sometimes – it’s really a look inside his head and I love that about it.”

Bellamy’s smile was probably blinding as he ducked his head. Clarke nudged him with her arm, pressing the side of her body up against his, and _God_ , he’d probably kiss her if Maya wasn’t there. Sometimes he wondered if she’d even mind if he went for it – probably not; it often felt like she was thinking the same thing about him.

“There are some lines from _Sister’s Keeper_ ,” Maya continued. “That a few fans have been talking about: _You’re locked in a cage/you bird of a girl/take the keys from me/I don’t want them anymore_.” Bellamy nodded, Maya looking up at him. “You haven’t really spoken about this song as much, for a single, but can you tell us about those lines?”

He swallowed, looking for the words. “The entire song is about my childhood with my sister,” he said after a beat. He felt Clarke’s hand move against his; not holding it, but the backs of their hands pressed together, warm and comforting as she watched him, supporting silently. “I’m only two years older, but I’ve sort of looked after her all my life. We didn’t have much money growing up and I can’t remember a time I’ve had something for myself without putting Octavia into consideration first. Going on this tour, creating an album – I even invited her to join the band when it started. I don’t want to ever put her in a place where she’s unhappy – and I guess when I was writing this song, I realised that I’d been unknowingly doing that for a long time.

“I wrote it shortly after we finished _Dear Daughter_ ,” he continued, Maya scribbling something into her notebook. “Octavia has always been seeking out freedom; she wants to go out on her own and live life to its full extent – and I’ve sort of been stopping her from doing that for a while. I’ve had to look after her and keep her safe; stop her from making bad decisions, but well, she’s seventeen now – I _know_ she can handle herself, I _know_ she could take down entire armies on her own; I don’t want her to have to, and she knows that if she ever gets put in that place, I’ll be there right beside her, but-“ Bellamy swallowed. “The entire song was me working through the act of letting her go; letting her be herself and realising that she won’t want me looking over her shoulder for the rest of her life.”

Maya smiled warmly at him. “It’s a hell of a song,” she said, and Bellamy grinned.

“That it is,” he agreed.

-

The warm-up act; a small-town band of burly men with tribal tattoos who could probably lift their tour bus if they tried; walked off stage, the sounds of the crowd echoing behind them. Bellamy smiled at Lincoln, the drummer, who grinned back.

“Got them all ready for you,” Lincoln told him. Bellamy laughed as he walked past.

“Thanks, Linc,” he said, before Lincoln disappeared into the darkness behind the stage. The audience was loud; thumping – waiting for them to come and deliver the main act of the evening. They wanted their music and hell would pay if Bellamy didn’t give it to them.

“You guys ready?” he asked over his shoulder, the rest of The 100 behind him.

“Always,” Raven replied with a smirk. There was a second of silence where they breathed in the smell of backstage; the rushing around, the lighting, the wires taped down to the floor. Someone in a head set nodded them forward to the stage, and Bellamy grinned to himself – wild, feral, everything he wanted to be; everything he felt up there in front of _thousands_.

“We got this,” Murphy told them. There was a slither of light from the stage, between the speakers and the Astro-light set and it was like the future; a rectangle of goddamn beauty amongst the darkness. This wasn’t their first concert of the tour, but each one felt like it anyway – the nerves, the jitters, the way his hands shook before he steadied them.

“Let’s kick some ass,” Clarke said, and they sauntered out into the light. The crowd went _wild_.

Bellamy picked up his guitar from its stand and slung the strap over his shoulders. They’d done a sound check earlier on but he strummed it once; loud and fast, anyway. Behind him, Clarke’s piano was set up as well as a bass, and Raven was ready at his side. He heard Murphy slamming his drum sticks onto the drums, and goddamn if this wasn’t _living_.

“We’re The 100,” Bellamy said, mouth so close to the mic he could almost taste it. “And welcome to the Delinquents Tours.” The screaming was indescribable.

Immediately, they started up the first song – _The Wrong Damn Mountain_ – and Bellamy went into the subspace. It was like he moved on autopilot; not controlling his actions, just moving with the music, _feeling_ it in his veins and letting it take him to new places. Sweat dripped down his forehead; his hair plastered to his skin and he was still going; his fingers still moving across his guitar, his mouth still singing, still yelling with the audience – about getting back up, about fighting for what they believe in, about taking on the odds and doing whatever the hell they wanted.

It was different to playing in the music store – that was like a garage band full of unlocked potential; fun and laughter with flickering lights and pyjamas instead of ripped tank tops. It was different to the studio, too – that was sleepless nights and caffeine highs; uncertainty about every lyric and trial and error until his throat grew sore. This was-

This was cosmic; this was taking on the world and taking it _down_. This was fighting the good fight and feeling the heat of the light on his skin; under glistening stars or domed ceilings; his name being chanted, his lyrics being screamed- it was like he was the creator of a universe and this was what he’d formed with his own two hands.

Half way through the set they toned it down; their slow songs coming in – _Dear Daughter, Hero of War_ and the song Murphy had written first as a poem before getting Bellamy to help him out with it, _You Tried_.

“ _And in the end,”_ Bellamy sang, drawing out the note as the crowd swayed and sang with him. “ _It doesn’t matter/’cause in the end/you tried- oh/in the end, you tried…_ ” The last notes of the piano faded out and Bellamy glanced back at Murphy, sitting behind his drum kit with a solid look on his face. Bellamy remembered the first time they’d sang it all the way through and his best friend had seemed close to tears (even if he didn’t admit it) – but this was different; this was Murphy feeling the song, and feeling it hard, but he had a show to perform and Bellamy made a mental note to tell Murphy that he appreciated him, because that kid didn’t hear it enough.

“We’d like to thank you all for coming out tonight,” Bellamy started, turning back to the audience. They cheered. “This is our last song of the night, it’s one of our singles, _Sister’s Keeper_ , and I hope you enjoy it.”

 _God_ , did they enjoy it.

There’s a feeling, when running off the stage after a show. It’s a magnetic pull that they had to fight against; something yanking them back to their instruments, to the spotlight and the screaming, the singing, the music – it’s the hardest thing to run away from every night, but when they did, they were breathing heavily and grinning from ear to ear; Clarke swinging herself into his arms for a hug, and Raven cheering as she high fived a stage hand she didn’t know. It’s a good feeling; a strong one, where they knew they couldn’t spend their entire lives under the lights, but they wanted to anyway, and they’d probably try to just to see how it goes.

“Bell!” a voice called and Bellamy looks up from where he was grinning wildly down at Clarke. His little sister was running over to him, past the stage hands, so happy and so young, and he felt that tug that brought him back to his sister every time – even stronger than the pull of the stage.

They embraced tightly; him picking her up and spinning her about and her laughing in his ear.

“That was such a good show!” Octavia gushed when her feet are on the ground again. Bellamy held her by her elbows.

“How much did you see?”

“All of it,” she told him with a grin, rolling her eyes. “I was watching from the crowd but I came back here when Reyes tripped on a wire in between songs and you guys had to figure out what you’d broken?” Bellamy laughed, his skin already pink but probably more so from that memory.

“That was an accident!” Raven called over with a pointed finger. “It should have been taped down!” They laughed together before Octavia looked back to Bellamy.

“I met your cover band, too! They’re the nicest people!”

“Yeah?” She nodded.

“That front singer, Roan, is a bit of a jerk – but I was watching with Lincoln? The drummer? And he’s great, Bell – do you ever hang out with him?” Bellamy knew his sister well enough to know when she had a crush, or the starting of one, and he rolled his eyes.

“You mean, _do I hang out with him enough to have his phone number?_ ” Even in the dim lighting, Octavia blushed as she grinned.

“Yeah, something like that,” she replied. Lincoln was a year or two older than him, but hell, they’d been on this tour for almost two months, and he was by-far the nicest of Trikru, his band. Besides, Bellamy knew Octavia – he knew her and her trusted her, and he was pretty sure she could take on Lincoln if it ever came to that, though he had the feeling in his gut that it wouldn’t.

“My phone’s in my bag,” he told her after a beat, and Octavia clapped her hands. “How about I give it to you later?” She nodded, pulling herself in for another hug as her name was called.

“Over here!” she yelled back. Bellamy looked over to Clarke and Raven, currently talking about something that happened on stage, and Murphy, chugging a bottle of water. They’d have to go out to the bus soon to get on the road again – but they got it so easily; they got that he hadn’t seen his sister in months.

A group of girls wandered out of the darkness; all ripped black clothes and heavy eyeliner. Octavia’s band, Grounders, was a group of scary girls with war paint who sung about fighting the patriarchy and crushing gender roles and basically world domination, eventually. The first one into the light was dark skinned with short hair; she was scary and intimidating and Bellamy wished she didn’t see him, even though - goddamn – she did. Indra was basically what his nightmares were made of, but Octavia loved her with all her heart. Then Anya wandered out, pale golden skin and smoky eyes; she and Raven had something of a friendship going and she headed straight on over (probably to boast about that one time she managed to drink Raven under the table, not too long ago).

Emori was by far the happiest of the band; she had a curved neck tattoo and a permanent grin on her face. One of her hands was a deformed, and Bellamy remembered Octavia telling him that she had been dumped as a child because of it, and so grew up in the system, but dear God, if she wasn’t one of the best drummers he’d ever heard – probably better than Murphy, even when he was actually putting effort into it. As expected, she caught Murphy’s eye and he went wandering over, smirk on his face and not-so-secret crush bubbling under the surface of his skin.

The lead singer, the one meandering behind the rest of the group, was a tall brunette called Lexa; hair braided back, a tattoo around her arm and a regal look on her face like she was worthier than everyone else in the room. In short, she and Bellamy had been friends since they day they met; she stoic and slightly dangerous, and him a bit of a dick but with charm to him.

“Blake,” she greeted with a firm nod. Out of the corner of his eye, Bellamy saw Murphy duck his head with a smile.

“Alexandra,” he replied. Lexa rolled her eyes.

“That’s not the same as what I did,” she said. Bellamy nodded.

“Correct, but I don’t know your last name, so I can’t do that.” He almost – _almost –_ saw a smile on her face, but she quickly covered it.

“And you won’t ever do it, either.” Bellamy caught Lexa’s eyes darting over his shoulder, to Clarke, and he sighed inwardly. Lexa and he were friends, they go along, they both cared about Octavia and sometimes Lexa would force herself along to the slightly worrisome events Octavia liked to attend (when she wouldn’t let him tag along), because she was at least loyal, like that. But she had this _thing_ for Clarke and it just got in his way sometimes – so he tried to pull her attention back.

“Did you enjoy the show?” he asked, a little loudly. Lexa’s eyes darted back to him.

“It was on par with the rest of your performances,” she shrugged.

“That doesn’t answer the question.” Lexa rolled her eyes.

“I wasn’t disgusted by your show, nor your music, and it, at some points, seemed fairly _okay_ ,” she said, picking out each word precisely as Octavia snickered beside him.

“She has your album on her phone,” his sister told him. “I hear her listening to it a lot, and I think your songs are on her most-played list.” The look Lexa shot Octavia was deadly, but Bellamy was still grinning.

“Traitor,” she muttered.

Bellamy moved over to Lexa, slinging an arm around her shoulder and pulling her in for a hug as she scrunched up her nose.

 “Aw, I love your music, too,” he told her.

“Of course you do,” she replied. “Our music actually has substance to it.” He rolled his eyes.

“Face it, you’re an English cover of Pussy Riot without with the criminal record,” he said, all smiling and sweet as she glared.

“I’m going to go talk to Clarke,” she said, firm, pulling out of his hug. He watched Lexa go, before looking over to Octavia.

“Tough luck,” she sighed on his behalf.

“Worth it,” he replied, even though he wondered if it really was, as Clarke twirled a strand of her hair around her finger.

The group all went to the tour bus together, Grounders standing aside as a small group of fans who’d waited by the stage door asked for photos and autographs. The band gave them all, grinning until their faces hurt the entire time, before piling onto the bus. He landed on the sofa next to his sister and watched as Clarke sat down beside Lexa. Part of him boiled over that, in his stomach – he knew she could do what she wanted; and he _liked_ Lexa. It just wasn’t fun watching the two of them together; especially after knowing each other for a matter of months, instead of the long-standing relationship Bellamy and Clarke had built up over time.

“Alright,” Octavia announced loudly, effectively shutting everyone up. It was almost two in the morning, the tour bus rolling out onto the road, and Bellamy was starting to feel the effects of being on stage for so long. “I have an announcement to make.” All eyes were on her as her face exploded into a grin. “Grounders got signed with ARK Records.”

If Bellamy thought the joy he felt on stage was amazing, then this was something even greater.

-

“Would you rather,” Raven began, lifting her can of beer to her lips. They were splayed out across the living area of the tour bus, going forty down a motorway, and playing the would you rather game. This was their life, five months into the tour. “Fight a lion in a cage with only a can of deodorant to protect you, or,” she scrunched up her nose, “have a hobo lick peanut butter off of your foot.” The tour bus was quiet for a moment before the others burst into laughter.

“Oh, man,” Murphy mused. “Does anyone know what lions feel about deodorant?”

“How do hobos feel about peanut butter should be the real question,” Clarke replied.

“Isn’t it objective to each hobo?” Bellamy asked. Clarke tipped her beer can towards him as an agreement.

“Raven,” she said. “What is the hobo’s opinion on peanut butter?”

“And what’s the lion’s about deodorant?” Murphy added. Raven grinned at them, tipping her head back on the back of the sofa.

“Um, the lion doesn’t like it and the hobo is indifferent.” Murphy nodded slowly.

“See that’s valuable information for making an informed decision.” Bellamy hummed his agreement.

“I think,” he said slowly. “I’d go for the hobo.” Clarke nodded.

“Hobo,” she agreed.

“Really?” Murphy asked. “The lion sounds far less creepy. I’m going lion.”

“But the lion scenario leaves space for _death_ ,” Clarke pointed out. “At least you’ll survive the hobo licking.”

“But what if the hobo likes the taste a little too much and tries to eat your foot or something? I’d rather be dead than have a hobo eat my foot,” Murphy replied.

“You’d rather a lion ate your foot than a hobo?” Bellamy asked. Murphy shrugged with a nod.

“I’m more in favour of the natural order of things than cannibalism,” he said.

“Why would the hobo even _eat_ your foot? Are you stereotyping hobos as crazy people?” Clarke questioned. Murphy snorted.

“No, I’m saying that a, we don’t know the mental faculties of the hobo, and b, a lot of people become homeless for all sorts of things, and some of them _are_ mentally ill. Though, thinking about it, I’m pretty sure the vast majority of homeless people wouldn’t eat someone’s foot – that’s something I hadn’t thought about very deeply.” Bellamy raised his eyebrows at Murphy.

“You’re an idiot,” he said. Raven laughed.

“For the record, I’d go for the peanut butter thing, too. You’re on your own, Murph.” He rolled his eyes, sitting up.

“Alright, my turn. Would you rather only eat ketchup for a year, nothing else – including drinks –or be bald for the rest of your life starting right now?”

Clarke snorted. “Are we allowed to wear wigs?”

“Nope,” Murphy replied. “Or hats. None of that. Just bald.”

“I could get a head tattoo,” Raven mused with a grin.

“Ooh, that would be nice,” Bellamy said, pointing over to her. “That would be way more interesting than hair.”

“We all have good hair though,” Clarke interjected. “Like, look at our hair – apart from Murphy, that is.”

“Hey!”

“Sorry,” she grinned, not sorry at all.

“What about the ketchup thing?” Raven asked.

“I don’t like ketchup as it is,” Bellamy said. “It’s hands down baldness for me – I mean, it’s even socially acceptable for men to be bald, this isn’t really an issue.”

“But your _hair_ ,” Clarke pouted. “It’s so thick and curly.” She reached over from where she was sitting, ruffling his hair as he rolled his eyes. “Murphy,” she said, placing down her empty beer can. “Can I give up my hair _and_ eat ketchup for a year, if you let Bellamy keep his hair and not have to eat ketchup either?”

Raven burst out laughing as Murphy thought it over. Bellamy’s cheeks were probably bright red, but he didn’t care.

“Fine,” Murphy decided. “That’ll be acceptable.”

“Then I choose that,” Clarke decided happily.

“You’d go bald for me?” Bellamy asked, over-exaggeratingly thankful. Clarke grinned at him.

“And eat ketchup for a year,” she agreed. Raven rolled her eyes at them, shaking her head.

“You’re both idiots. I choose the baldness thing – I’d get a cool head tattoo and I’d still be badass,” she decided. She looked over to Clarke. “Why would you go bald for Bellamy?”

“Wouldn’t you?” Clarke retorted, a smirk on her face. “He has beautiful hair, let’s not waste that.” Murphy snorted.

“She’d go bald for Lexa, too,” he said. “Wouldn’t you?” Bellamy glanced over at Clarke who was scrunching her nose up.

“No, let her go bald,” she replied.

“I thought you were into each other,” Bellamy said lamely. She shrugged.

“Fizzled out I guess. Besides, she’s so obviously hung up on her ex – Costia, or someone. They’re long distance, but she does _not_ stop talking about her.” Clarke rolled her eyes, and there was a warm feeling in Bellamy’s chest. It came from her going bald for him, and eating ketchup for a year so he wouldn’t have to, but it also came from her not being interested in his friend – in a girl who could take her away from him (even though she was never his to have).

“Well, good,” Murphy decided.

“Good?”

“Yeah,” he nodded. “You wouldn’t be able to take the deal for both Lexa and Bell, so I’m glad you settled on him. He would be an ugly bald man.” Raven snorted, and Clarke laughed loudly.

“I’ll make sure to take you out for a good meal when your year of ketchup is up,” he promised. Clarke slapped a hand to her heart.

“That’s the sweetest thing, Bell,” she drawled.

“Not sweeter than going bald for him,” Raven pointed out. Bellamy shook his head, taking another swig of his drink. Murphy smiled at them, and it was like they were on cloud nine. It was the stupid, mundane conversations and moments that felt special in their own right, in between the concerts and fans and screaming the lyrics to songs they wrote half asleep, that made those moments in the spot light so magical.

It felt so permanent in the moment; so solid in their bones, but it turned out so temporary.

That’s the thing about feeling on top of the world, Bellamy found out; there’s the feeling as if you could continue fighting forever, and the universe would always scream your name-

But then, one day you can be at the top, and the next you’re scrambling to find purchase on the cliff-face as you fall to the bottom.

That’s what it felt like when Aurora Blake died.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i stole the would you rathers from zoey 101 but i don't care
> 
> the lyrics to sister's keeper and you tried are ones i made up myself go me, i just really wanted murphy's song in there
> 
> THANKS FOR READING! Comments and Kudos mean the world to me and I'd LOVE to know what you think about this fic so far!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aurora sadness

Bellamy hadn’t seen sunlight in about a week. Well – that wasn’t completely true; he’d seen the sunlight through the windows whenever someone would come into his apartment, above the closed music store, and whip open the curtains, telling him to stop stewing in his sadness and make something of himself. The second they left he would pull himself up from the sofa and shut the curtains again. Bellamy preferred the dark when he was mourning the loss of his mother.

He spent his days on the sofa, the television playing to itself until it turned off by itself due to lack of use. Octavia would crawl around their home, only coming out of her room where she’d bundled herself up in all the blankets she could find and slept nineteen hours a day, when she wanted food, which was rare. They were even running out of it because neither sibling could face the outside world.

The funeral had been short; perfunctory. About twenty people showed up and Bellamy left before the coffin had been fully lowered into the ground; Clarke jogging after him and trying to calm him down – but, _damn_. He had been angry; furious at the world for taking his mother away, for destroying the safe, sheltered corner of his mind, for hurting him again and again even when it didn’t need to.

Aurora Blake had never been a great mother – she never said she was, either. She knew she was struggling, she knew her son went hungry as a child, she knew her boyfriends were happy to hurt her children if they wanted to. But she _tried_. She tried and tried; she stopped dating when Octavia turned thirteen, and she forced herself away from her alcoholism, and Bellamy hadn’t seen a needle or an ashtray in their home since he was twelve, and she was _trying for them_.

The universe still thought it was right to have a car run her down and speed off into the night.

He hadn’t showered since the funeral, a week before. Just laid on the sofa and stared at the walls; devoid of emotion and pain – it was neutral; a soul-sucking middle ground where he found that if he tried not to feel he wouldn’t have to hurt.

The front door opened and closed; all slamming and loud footsteps on the ground, the signature of John Murphy entering his home. Murphy hadn’t been heartbroken over Aurora’s death, but he had stayed around at the funeral, and stared into the hole, and this second mother for five years who made him sandwiches every time he came over, and told him that he could be better even when he knew he couldn’t – she was gone and now Murphy was down to the one, alcoholic mother who blamed him for his father’s death.

Murphy dropped his backpack in the middle of the floor and walked over to Bellamy, flicking off the television and sitting down right next to Bellamy’s head. Murphy was on the floor, looking at his best friend, and Bellamy just stared, blank.

“You need a shower, man,” Murphy said, straight to the point. Bellamy didn’t respond. “You actually smell terrible and I think you haven’t even opened the windows since you got back here – this place just reeks of your body odour.” Still, Bellamy was empty. Murphy sighed, shifting and leaning against the coffee table.

“Bell,” he said, quiet, soft maybe – a voice he saved only for Emori, and days, long, long ago, when Octavia was littler and cried at every scrape and Murphy dealt with it like she was his own sister, and not that of his best friend. Bellamy, if he had felt anything at the time, would have known he was lucky that Murphy saw him as someone he could use that voice with. “I want to help you – but you need to be responsive.” Bellamy blinked and Murphy took that as a reply. “Okay, yeah – there we go. Why don’t we shower? Why don’t we get you into that bathroom, and make you smell better, and maybe open _one_ curtain?” Bellamy swallowed, and his eyes slowly moved to the windows. “Okay, let’s do that.”

Murphy stood and opened a single curtain, shedding light onto the floor. “It’s a nice day outside,” he said, almost wistful that he wasn’t out there. “Let’s get you clean.”

It was a struggle, to put it simply. Bellamy just couldn’t feel himself properly to help his friend out, but Murphy was determined, if anything, and lugged him into the bathroom. He leaned Bellamy up against the wall inside the shower, and stared, hopeless for a second.

“You haven’t changed clothes in a week, have you?” he asked. As expected, Bellamy didn’t reply. Murphy nodded. “I’m not sure if I’m up for seeing you naked just yet, so we’ll wash them at the same time.” Murphy stripped down to his underwear, not really caring, and turned on the shower; spraying Bellamy with cold water that finally got a reaction out of him.

“Shit,” Bellamy jumped.

“There we go,” Murphy grinned. Bellamy’s legs didn’t seem to hold out for very long, so Murphy pulled a chair from the dining room into the shower, where Bellamy sat down. Murphy washed his hair, and sprayed at him for a while, until he deemed him clean enough to stop.

“I’ll get you some clothes,” he announced, leaving a dripping Bellamy in the bathroom. Murphy led him back to the sofa, damp and in clean pyjamas, where Bellamy curled right back up on the sofa cushions again. He watched Murphy place the blanket on him and frowned up at his friend. Murphy sighed, catching the glance.

“I know what it’s like,” he said quietly. “I know how it feels to lose a parent – lose both, even. And maybe you won’t want to leave the sofa for another few weeks. That’s fine, Bell. Baby steps. You’re clean, that’s all we need to do today.” Murphy switched back on the television, and stayed with him for a while, watching a hockey game that neither of them were particularly interested in. But, Bellamy appreciated it; he appreciated his best friend.

After a while, Murphy went to go and check on Octavia, and Bellamy’s eyes left the TV, when Murphy emerged from her room, Octavia flopped over his shoulder as they headed for the bathroom.

“I’ll get her clean and then make dinner,” he called. If Bellamy had it in him to smile, he would have. When Murphy left, Bellamy didn’t shut the curtain; just let the light filter into the room like it hadn’t for a while.

-

A day later, Raven arrived. She was different to Murphy. She jogged up the stairs, shut the door normally, her backpack landed on an armchair and she went straight for the curtains.

“Alright, lazybones,” she announced. “We’re going to get you up.” He groaned, tipping his head into the sofa cushions. “I know, I know,” she continued. “It sucks –but we’re going to go for it, and we’re going to get you dressed. I’ll find you some clothes. Have you listened to any music lately?” Raven switched off the TV as she went, before plugging her phone into a speaker and playing their own album.

Bellamy shoved his head under the blanket, covering his ears with his hands as Raven went to find clothes. When she returned, Bellamy was tightly wound into a ball, eyes tightly shut and head ducked under his arms. Raven stopped the music.

“Bellamy,” she said, across the room. “You can’t be afraid of getting up.” He wasn’t _afraid_ , per se. “If you don’t face the day, you never will. I was talking to Murphy.” She moved closer, not one for slow movements, like Murphy was when he understood the situation perfectly. She scooted down next to Bellamy, and pulled back the blanket. Her hand was warm on his arm as she gently pried it away from his face.

His hair was tangled and his eyes carefully opened as she watched him. “Baby steps,” she said. “I was too small when my dad died – it didn’t really affect me. But, Murphy and Clarke know better than I do, and they’re definite that baby steps is the way forward.” She nodded surely, standing up. “So we’re just going to get you dressed. Real, normal clothes for today, and we’ll listen to our music, because it’s all about picking yourself up off the ground, and then maybe we’ll get you some coffee. How does that sound?”

“Terrible,” Bellamy muttered. Raven smiled.

“Great! Let’s go!” She pulled him up, and dragged off his shirt, helping him into the t-shirt she’d pulled from his drawer. She was never one for embarrassment, and Raven promptly pulled off his pyjama trousers and helped to tug on the jeans, then socks, shoes just to fill the effect. She grinned at him widely the entire time, giving him encouragements and telling him how well he was doing.

“How about that music?” Bellamy flopped back down onto the sofa. “No,” she sighed. “Bell – just listen to it, okay? You loved writing _Get Knocked Down, Get Back Up_. Didn’t you say Octavia inspired that song? And what about _I’m Not Afraid_? And _Slay Your Demons_? Bell – these are songs _you_ wrote about getting through hardship.”

He shot her a glare. “I didn’t write them about myself getting over my mother’s death,” he spat. Raven didn’t seem offended though, just frowning at him.

“I’ll get your sister dressed, and then we’re going to go down into the store.” Raven marched off, flicking the music on as she went past, and Bellamy curled back up, trying to block out the sound of his own voice. It was so intruding; so loud and powerful when he just wanted silence – somewhere he could let out his pain one little bit at a time, and stew in it until it evaporated.

 _Screw you, I’m not afraid/Screw you, I’m not afraid/Now, screw you, I’m not afraid!_ The speakers chanted it over and over, Bellamy’s voice yelling in his ear. He wasn’t afraid to live without his mother, no – he’d been doing that for so long. He wasn’t afraid, he was just wrecked. He didn’t know how he was supposed to take on the responsibility of Octavia – still over half a year away from being eighteen, and still a child in her own right. He had a store, bills, an apartment, a _sister_ , all in his name.

Okay, so he was a little afraid. It was just too much to manage in one go.

When he received the call, Bellamy had gone straight home. He left the concert, half way through, and boarded a plane without any of his luggage – just the first one that would get him back to Ark. They’d cancelled the rest of the tour, and Bellamy drove himself onwards with coffee and the need to give his mother a good send off. The minute it was over he fell into his slump.

Octavia was nudged out of her room, dressed properly, with Raven smiling encouragingly behind her. She landed his sister on the sofa beside him, pulling him back up so he was sitting, and then went to make some coffee. Octavia automatically leant on him, and he leant back; needing her for support as much as she needed him.

They didn’t say anything; didn’t cry or sniff; just stayed perfectly still, resting on their sibling.

Raven shoved mugs of coffee into their hands, before pulling them down to the store.

It was empty; the lights on, a sign in the window saying it was closed indefinitely, the instruments where they’d left them. The Blake siblings stared hopelessly into the store they’d grown up in, and Raven watched carefully as the first tears began to slip down Octavia’s face. She dumped her mug on the counter, and Bellamy followed suit, just a second before she barrelled herself into his arms, crying and crying and crying until there was nothing left in her and they were kneeling on the floor; legs giving way and hearts not strong enough to hold them up.

“I really fucking miss her,” Octavia cried into his shoulder. Bellamy nodded, that numb feeling wearing off slightly.

“I do, too,” he whispered, and felt the first tear hot down his cheek. No more came after that, as Bellamy gritted his teeth and Raven crouched down with them, joining in on the hug. They held each other; the three of them, and they stayed there for a while; the world still turning on outside, and the rest of the universe, still perfectly at peace even though they weren’t.

When they pulled themselves back up, they looked about the store.

“You could try playing something,” Raven suggested to the siblings. Octavia stepped forward, cautiously, like the instruments might hurt her. She ran a finger down the strings of the closest guitar, before pulling it across them. The sound was so familiar; something they both knew so well, yet so foreign. Octavia recoiled, shaking her head.

“I don’t think so,” she said, before turning and walking upstairs, unassisted. The door swung shut behind her, and Bellamy looked to Raven.

“Would you like a go?” she asked. Bellamy swallowed, shaking his head.

“No,” he replied. “I want to go back upstairs.” Raven nodded, sighing, before holding her arms out so he had someone to hold on to and guiding him back up to the sofa. She stayed for a while, cleaning the apartment and playing their music on a quiet volume, as he tried to sleep. Part way through the day, Octavia’s friends Jasper and Monty arrived, like they did every day since she’d found out about Aurora, the same day he had, and they said their hellos before going into her room and cheering her up the best way they knew how; underage drinking and video games.

Raven stayed until Octavia’s friends left, and as Bellamy pretended to sleep, he heard Raven go and check on his sister. He may have been going through hell, but at least he had good friends.

-

Clarke came the next day, like clockwork. They were taking shifts; taking turn to look after the poor boy who’d lost his mother. She came at the same time as Jasper and Monty, who said hello, like always before heading into Octavia’s room. Clarke came and sat with Bellamy on the sofa. He was dressed, sure, but he was staring blankly at the wall trying to figure out all of his problems in one go – and God, it was too much.

“Hey,” Clarke said, chipper. “How are you doing?” Bellamy didn’t reply, just dragged his eyes from the wall to her. She nodded. “Thought as much. I think we should listen to some music, don’t you?”

It was obvious, what they were trying to do. Sure, it was get him back to himself again, but it was get him clean, get him dressed, let him see the outside world. It was working, he guessed. He hadn’t showered since Murphy had come round, and he couldn’t bring himself to do so again, but the curtains were open and he’d cracked a window, so his home smelt slightly better.

Clarke stood up and moved to the speakers. Apparently, being able to listen to music and play it again was the next step. Bellamy didn’t really care that much.

She put on the music and he flopped onto the sofa, face first. Clarke sighed, and so it went.

She stuck around for a few hours, but Bellamy wasn’t having any of it, and he fell asleep as she tried to tell him about his new song idea she wanted to run by him, and woke up to her shaking his shoulder, dry look and single raised eyebrow.

“I’m not _that_ boring,” she said, and he huffed.

Octavia left her room at once point, friend on either side of her, and went downstairs. He heard a keyboard a few minutes later, but it shut off soon after. Bellamy curled up tighter on the sofa, and Clarke sat down, resting his head on her lap and running her fingers through his hair.

“You’ll get there,” she promised. “It just takes time.”

She came back the next day, in the morning, Murphy in tow. Murphy was the one to pull him out of bed – or, well, the sofa, seeing as he used to share the room with Octavia, and he was now sleeping on the sofa like his mother used to. Clarke made breakfast and woke up Octavia as Murphy helped Bellamy into the shower, and this time his legs didn’t give out, but he stood there, motionless and naked under the spray with his best friend on the other side of the curtain, talking and talking because the silence would just make things worse.

Eventually, Murphy resigned himself to helping, and soon Bellamy was clothed and damp and cross-legged on the sofa with Clarke running a comb through his hair because it was all knotted and gross, and Murphy sitting Octavia down beside him. They ate what they were given – Clarke had cooked an actual breakfast for them, and it was the first real meal they’d had in a while.

His friends suggested they listen to music, and the siblings remained still and unhappy, curling into one another. Clarke was ready to protest but Murphy held out his hand for her.

“Next time,” he said simply, and this was the only time he’d ever been patient in his life.

Apparently, Octavia’s bandmates _had_ been visiting, but usually when Bellamy was asleep it seemed, and the day after they arrived, Clarke and Raven in tow, ignoring the blatant tension between the former and Lexa, pulling the siblings out of bed.

“You’re going to play music,” Anya announced, trying to keep the glare off of her face. “What’s that saying you keep rattling on about?”

“Get knocked down, get back up,” Indra supplied. “You’re down, you’re a little dirty and I don’t think those are clean clothes, so this is the time to get back up.” Octavia let her band drag her downstairs, Emori skipping along in front to hold open doors and ramble on about something she’d heard, and Lexa, staying behind.

Raven and Clarke made themselves look busy as the stoic woman sat down next to Bellamy.

“Are you going to tell me I’m being weak?” he asked, looking to his friend. She gave him a dry look before shaking her head.

“Death is painful,” she replied. “It hurts and it’s all-consuming. I understand. But you should never let it take over. Bellamy Blake, your sister needs you, your band needs you, your fans need you – for fucks sake, _you_ need you.” She glared at him a little and Bellamy didn’t have it in him to cower. “I know you’ll get out of this slump, but you need to speed it up. People depend on you.”

She got up then and sauntered out, back straight, head high, shoulders back. He looked over to his friends.

“Don’t look at us,” Raven said. “She’s right.”

It took time. It took a few more days of visiting and seeing his friends – Miller and Mbege made a few stops over, as well as Harper, Monroe and Bryan on another day, even though he wasn’t very close with them. They were friends and it meant a lot; they each helped him through the motions of getting up and facing the day, making his way down to the shop and sitting at the piano, placing his hands on the keys and hoping they wouldn’t scare him off.

Sometimes they did, and sometimes he managed to play a small tune before taking his hands back and curling his fingers and breathing heavily.

Then there was the night where Clarke sat next to him on the sofa, the sky black and the lights off. They were silent, and maybe this was how he wanted to talk – maybe this was the only way to get it out, because the silence scared him and he had to fill it.

“Mum taught me guitar,” he said at last. He almost _felt_ Clarke’s ears twitch up and her attention start, even though she didn’t move at all. “She taught me how to play and how to sing. She taught me piano, drums, bass – everything in that store she could play to some extent and she taught me all of it.”

Bellamy swallowed and Clarke reached out slowly, grasping his hand with her own. “She wasn’t a great mother, but she was a fantastic teacher,” he continued. “I remember her teaching me violin when I was six, and cello when I was nine. I think I learned some trumpet at eleven, as well. She just loved music and loved playing – I got that from her. I got everything from her. There’s never been anyone else for me to learn from, just Mum and just the lessons after school in the store.” He sniffed, and maybe his eyes were watering and maybe he was on the verge of tears, but his mother was dead and he didn’t tell her that he loved her enough.

“She came and saw our Ark concert of the tour,” Bellamy said, after a beat. “And she told me she’d never been as proud as she was then – that I was living my dream, living _her_ dream; making it a reality and being my own person, and not needing a failing store as a source of income. Fuck, she was so proud. It’s the only time she every really was.”

“That’s not true,” Clarke whispered.

“No, maybe not,” he agreed after a beat. “She was proud whenever I decided to keep learning an instrument, whenever I agreed to babysit Octavia, or could run the shop by myself. I don’t think… I don’t think she was proud of who I became though.”

“Don’t say that.”

“It’s true,” Bellamy sighed. “The person I am – it’s not, _I’m_ not what she imagined, I don’t think. Whenever she was yelling at me, if I did something wrong or messed up, she would always tell me that I was too much like my father – that it was like seeing him again. I love her, Clarke, but-“ he coughed, swiping harshly at the damp on his cheeks. “But she saw the monster that was my father, and she saw him every day. I look just fucking like him, Clarke, and – and-“ he trailed off, crying and breathing heavily, not being able to form his thoughts.

 _Monster, monster, monster,_ repeating in his head, over and over. Just his in mother’s voice – just her telling him that he wasn’t enough, he wasn’t what she wanted over and over. It didn’t matter that he knew it wasn’t true – he knew his mother loved him, he knew that she cared, but goddamn if it didn’t hurt like hell anyway.

-

When his friends arrived a few days later, he was sitting at the piano in the store. His hands were on the keys and he was playing and feeling the music in his bones, in his veins. It was what he remembered; what he missed, and whilst he was a little wary about going outside, or being clean and getting dressed – _this_ was something that he could do.

They stared at him in awe, and waited until he was finished to clap. Bellamy jumped, and looked up, his best friends grinning at him.

“That was amazing,” Clarke smiled.

“Not half bad, Blake,” Murphy nodded, leaning on the piano. “Does this mean you can shower by yourself now?” Bellamy laughed – he laughed and it felt like opening a cage and letting the doves fly free. He’d missed smiling and laughing, caring and loving and there was still the numbness in his limbs, aching for his mother, but he was okay anyway, he was fine.

-

It was that night that he couldn’t sleep and he tiptoed down into the store, flicking on the light as he went. There were lyrics bouncing around his mind – something he hadn’t felt in a while – and music at his fingertips. He set up at the counter, sitting on a stool and placing the paper in front of him. Gingerly, Bellamy lifted a guitar from its stand and placed it on his lap, running his hands over the sleek edges and smooth finish. He swallowed, slinging the strap over his shoulders.

Bellamy brushed his fingers over the strings, and found himself falling in love with the sound they made all over again.

Then he played.

He let out all of his hurt, all of his love for his mother and the pain of her being gone, and played for hours, until his fingers were almost bleeding and his throat was sore. He scribbled lyrics and lines; crossing out old ones over and over as he changed the chorus, the verse, the chord. Bellamy just kept going; he wrote a song for his mother and he spent the night on it, working until the front door unlocked and Murphy came through, Clarke close behind.

“Hey,” Murphy said, frowning. “Are you alright?” Bellamy nodded, using his pencil to cross out a line. “Have you been down here all night?”

“Yeah,” Bellamy replied. “I’m working.”

“We can see that,” Clarke said slowly. They moved closer to the counter and his eyes darted up. “What are you working on?” He curled the paper up, hiding it from their view. Bellamy pressed it against the guitar for extra measure.

“I’m not done.” His friends nodded.

“You _do_ smell though,” Murphy decided. “How about you shower and then you can keep going with the song?” Bellamy frowned at his best friend before Clarke jumped in.

“Sometimes, to get a song perfect, you need some time away from it,” she agreed. Bellamy huffed, agreeing, and Clarke took the guitar from him as he led them upstairs. He slipped into Octavia’s room, stuffing the song under the false bottom of the desk.

“What are you doing?” his sister asked, groggy and half asleep.

“Just putting a song I wrote away,” he replied simply. “I don’t want anyone to see it until it’s done.” She nodded, watching him through squinting eyes. He paced over to her. “Go back to sleep,” Bellamy told her softly. She dropped her head back onto the pillow and he pressed a kiss to her forehead.

When he re-emerged, Murphy was holding out a pile of his clothes from his case in the corner of the room.

“Time to make you clean,” he announced. Murphy waited outside the door until the water was running, before coming in and sitting on the closed toilet lid. “So you’re writing again?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Bellamy said after a beat, letting the cold water hit his face. “I am.”

“I’m glad,” his friend replied. “What’s the song about?”

“Mum.” Murphy was silent for a second.

“You’re worried it won’t be perfect,” he guessed. Bellamy frowned.

“How did you know?”

“Because it’s for your mother, and I did the same thing over the eulogy for Dad’s funeral. Didn’t help in the slightest that I’m dyslexic and I couldn’t actually write for shit.” Bellamy snorted.

“I was there,” he said. “It was a great eulogy.” Murphy scoffed.

“Yeah, well, what I’m saying is – I know how you feel. It’s going to be hard to get it right, as if you’re not honouring her properly. But, I promise you, whatever you come up with will be something amazing, and your mother would be proud of you for it even if you wrote two shitty lines.” Bellamy smiled, not many people would say that they were lucky to have John Murphy, but he would any day of the week.

“Thanks, Murphy,” he said quietly.

“Anytime, Bell,” his friend replied.

-

Bellamy may have been closer to his old self again; coming out of his cage, and eventually dragging Octavia with him, but it didn’t mean that he would actually stop writing that song until he was finished with it. And that took some time – three days to be exact.

Every time another person entered the room, he would abruptly stop and stare at them until they’d left, and he hid the papers if anyone even came near them. This was private; for him and Aurora, and he didn’t want the music tainted.

When he was finished, his fingers aching and his heart pounding, he just stared at the music in front of him. Carefully, Bellamy copied it out, word for word, note for note, in his neatest handwriting, before playing it through again. It was perfect; it was what he wanted, to say, to feel, to tell his mother. He couldn’t have done it better.

“I’m done,” he announced, quiet to his friends sitting on the sofa in his living room. They all looked up to where he was standing in the doorway. “I finished the song.” His friends grinned at him.

“Does this mean we can hear it now?” Raven asked. Bellamy nodded.

“Tomorrow,” he said. “You have to be wearing nice clothes. Like, fancy. But not too fancy.” His friends looked between themselves for a moment before agreeing.

“Okay, Blake,” Raven replied. “We’ll dress up for it.” He nodded, a smile playing at his lips, before he wandered off to go and tell Octavia the same thing.

-

As instructed, his friends arrived at ten a.m. on the dot. Murphy wore his suit, hands stuffed in the pockets and not amused in the slightest about _wearing a suit_. Raven wore a red dress that flared out at the waist; with black heels and a bright smile. Clarke’s hair was pinned up, and she wore black flats with a blue dress, much like Raven’s, and Bellamy grinned – the first time in a long time.

“So, we’re here,” Murphy said. “What’s happening?” Octavia entered the shop, too, from the stair well, and Bellamy picked up the guitar he’d been using, and the music.

“Come on,” he said, leading them outside. He paused, as he hit the pavement, swallowing at the first time since the funeral he’d been out of his home, and in the same suit he wore that day, too. Then he powered forwards, because that’s what he did, and he led them to his car, a little down the road, climbing in the front seat.

His friends hesitated before climbing in too, Octavia in the front and the others squashed in the back.

“Where are we going?” Octavia asked, but Bellamy remained silent, eyes staring at the road and the weight of the guitar in the boot.

“This is definitely a murder plan,” Murphy mused in the back. Raven elbowed him. “He’s taking us somewhere to kill us.” Clarke snorted.

“He couldn’t take all four of us at once,” she replied. “He’ll probably take us somewhere, give us food that’s drugged, _then_ kill us.” Murphy nodded.

“Good plan – classic. That’s how I’d do it.”

“And incinerate the body afterwards?” Clarke smirked.

“Absolutely,” Murphy replied. “You’d made a great accomplice.” Clarke placed her hand on her chest, mock-honoured.

“That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me,” she grinned. Bellamy rolled his eyes in the front and kept driving. The speaker was off and his friends filled the air with nonsensical jokes to lighten the mood.

They were silent when he pulled into the cemetery.

The car park was pretty full, and he could see a group of mourners, all dressed in black, standing outside the crematorium. Bellamy parked the car and climbed out, the others following suit. He retrieved his guitar from the boot of the car, before nodding his friends forward.

As they wandered up to the graves, a black hearse pulled up on the drive way and parked by the crowd. The windows were full with flowers and Bellamy stopped, watching them pull out the coffin and carry it inside.

“Bell,” Octavia said, low and soft, her hand touching his arm. Bellamy jolted out of his haze and nodded at her.

“Come on,” he said, moving them forwards.

The walk to Aurora Blake’s grave was silent; everyone worried about breaking it but the tension was crushing them. There were so many words lingering in the air, Bellamy could sense. So many questions – _what are we doing here, why now?_ But he ignored them and powered onwards.

He hadn’t seen the grave when it was full, and it was very different from seeing the coffin at the bottom of a ditch. Bellamy swallowed, looking at the dirt that was slowly sprouting grass, but still brown and fresh after only a few weeks.

He sat down at the foot of the grave and slipped the guitar onto his lap. His friends followed suit; sitting up the sides of the grave, Octavia and Murphy on one side, Clarke and Raven on the other, and dirtying up their nice clean clothes. No one complained, nor broke their silence, just watched him and read the engraving on the headstone-

Name, dates, _may we meet again_.

“Hi,” Bellamy started lamely, staring at the grave in front of him. “I know I left pretty quick…” his friends watched as he spoke to his mother, tears already threatening to pour. “But I wrote you a song, so I hope that makes up for it in some small way.” He lifted the strap over his head, gave the strings a test strum, before beginning. His voice started off quiet, hoarse.

“ _Give me one good reason who I should trust/or see the good in both of us/when we came with love and left with lust/when we came with lies we’ve learned to trust,”_ Bellamy sang, eyes stuck on his hands on the guitar. He supposed, really, that the song could be heard in so many ways, but he meant it in one:

He was the son of Aurora Blake – he inherited her mistakes, her misfortunes, her debts; but he also got her talent, her soul, her smile. He had wondered, when he was writing, if he was just another copy of her; younger and angrier, and if they’d both had the same path, really. It was just that they took two different direction with it. “ _We slip into something more comfortable/they like you best when you are vulnerable…”_

Bellamy had gone off and trusted his talent; making himself successful and known and _happy_. Aurora had stuck with the shop, she’d stuck with boyfriends that didn’t care for her, and drugs that only made her sad. Bellamy knew, right in his core, that Aurora could have been a better musician than him, if she’d gone out and taken what she deserved, not what others thought she did.

“ _Just when you thought the world was yours/when you thought you had it all/just when you thought you’d done enough to get/you through the night/the night, night…”_

Bellamy had been the child to wreck her right when she could have become _anything_. He wrecked her, his father wrecked her – and God, it didn’t matter that it wasn’t Bellamy’s fault. It was, in his head.

“ _Give me one good reason why I should trust/in all these things that turn to dust./When we beg we get down on our knees/when we’re full we want to be empty.”_ Bellamy had so many things he wished he could have said to his mother – so many questions, like why was his best never good enough, why do people always leave, how was he supposed to survive this? He figured he could ask them with his song; figured he could tell his mother all the things he needed to – the things he couldn’t stop feeling. Bellamy’s voice was getting stronger as the song went on; emotion laced in his tone, and his heart breaking in his voice. “ _You loved the chase ‘til it slowed down/you loved the hunt ‘til it hit town/’til it hit town—Slip into something invincible…”_

Maybe his friends were staring at him like he’d gone crazy, but his eyes didn’t leave his guitar. He couldn’t bear to watch the grave – there wouldn’t be a response there. His mother wouldn’t rise from the ground to give him his applause – and his friends wouldn’t say anything whilst he was singing. Maybe Octavia was crying – he didn’t know. All he knew was that his hands were moving, his lungs were breathing, his throat was dry and yet he was still singing with everything he had.

Bellamy moved back into the chorus, images of his mother flitting through his mind like the butterflies that were printed on all of Octavia’s childhood clothes. She hadn’t been the greatest of mothers, but she was great in herself. Aurora Blake dancing around the living room; Bellamy’s hands with hers, the rain pouring outside – she was a single mother who fought the world again and again.

He could see her, guitar in her lap, strumming and watching him do the same; leaning forward and changing the position of his fingers, and then going again. The smile when he got it right, the nod and the advice when he didn’t.

Bellamy remembered the way her hands felt on his forehead when he was ill; soft and smooth, brushing back his hair as she frowned above him. The _you’re burning up, sweetie_ , the glass of tepid water she’d place on the nightstand, the kiss on his forehead when she told him to go back to sleep.

“ _Who do you trust when all I know is at home in/all the wars?/And I’ve been somewhere, I’ve been somewhere./Who do you turn to when the best of everyone you/knew has turned on you?/I’ve been somewhere, I’ve been somewhere…”_ he held out the note, his strums so strong and loud in the quiet of the cemetery and his voice emotional and clear.

Bellamy Blake had a riot in his head, in his heart, in his body, and he didn’t ever think it would show itself because of his mother’s death. He knew he needed time to get through it; no amount of power ballads and hours of staring at the rain would lighten his heart. Besides, Bellamy Blake had the world’s greatest friends – he could do this.

He could do this.

He continued on into the final chorus, which he went through twice, and his eyes shut, closing tightly, the world was dark from him because he felt dark to the world.

 _“Just when you thought the world was yours/just when you thought you it all/just when you thought you’d done enough to get/you through the night./The night, night…”_ Bellamy’s voice trailed away, his fingers coming to a halt from the strumming, and he opened his eyes.

Bellamy first registered the dampness of his face and lifted a hand to swipe at the tears that flowed freely. He looked up to the grave, silent and barren as he expected, before turning to his sister. Like him, Octavia’s cheeks were covered in silent tears, and she threw herself towards him, holding him in a tight embrace that he returned, after quickly yanking the guitar away and placing it behind him.

He held his sister like he couldn’t do anything else in the world – maybe this was all he could do. Maybe he couldn’t keep the shop running, or pay all of the bills, or keep his sister from getting put into the system for the last few months of her childhood before she became an adult; but he _could_ hold her as tightly as possible, and never let go.

His friends crowded in then, Clarke joining in on the hug from the left, and Raven and Murphy hugging by extension. They sat there in the silence, everyone’s faces a little wet and a little broken, until Clarke looked up at him. Shakily, he met her gaze.

“That was a beautiful song,” she told him, the sincerity cracking through her voice. Clarke rested her head back down on his shoulder and he smiled.

 _May we meet again, Aurora Blake_ , he thought, staring at the cloudless sky above them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song is The Midnight Afterlife by Kids In Glass Houses. I don't care if it was meant as a love sort of song maybe? I was listening to it and I felt Aurora Blake deep in my soul.
> 
> THANKS FOR READING! I love all comments and kudos so please leave some of those because they make my day! Thank you!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're at the end!!! thank u to everyone who's read this far and told me their feelings about it. it would mean the WORLD if you commented on this chapter - told me what you thought about it; i had another song i wanted to add in, so there's the possibility of adding a time stamp fic in this universe so i could do that, i don't know. i just want to know your feelings!!!
> 
> this chapter contains: brollexa, bellarke, memori + happiness. if you're opposed to those things, this will not be the chapter for u. but u should read it anyway because it's just happy and finishes things off!!
> 
> enjoy!!

_@The100: The band is back in the studio and recording their second, untitled album!_

Bellamy relearned the band.

He picked himself back up from the dirt and taught himself how to be a musician again; how to collaborate and feel things other than pain. He watched Murphy drum and Raven slam out a solo; watched Clarke playing the piano and asking about a particular note to play on the bass. He watched Clarke. Because Clarke was still so beautiful, so present, so awe-inspiring. He’d written a hundred unfinished songs about this girl; letting his pencil scribble through the night and fall where it may when he stopped. He’d stared at the words on the page and hoped to dear God that they sounded better out loud than they did in his head.

(They rarely did; Clarke was spectacular, and his words never lived up to his muse.)

They didn’t work in the studio the way they did the first time. They came and went when they had music, and they spent time in the store, customers and fans coming and going, working on various pieces and trying to figure out what they wanted their sound to be in this album – what they wanted to tell the world with their music.

Bellamy spent the hours he wasn’t playing getting custody of Octavia. It wasn’t very difficult, in the end. She only had less than a year of being a child left; she was in a signed band, earning a wage, and he was world-famous, and not yet on tour. He won custody and they sat in the empty store, wondering how they were going to keep it running when they wanted to be _playing_ the instruments, not selling them.

But that was a fight for another day; they hired Octavia’s friends, Jasper and Monty to work in the store so they could play their music, and they hoped it would work out, somehow.

“I don’t know what we’re going for,” Clarke huffed, slamming her hands on the keys. “All of the songs we’ve been trying are completely different sounds.”

“What’s the message we want to get out, then?” Bellamy asked, looking at the others. They were silent, thinking.

“Our first album was about fixing ourselves,” Raven said at last.

“Yes,” Murphy replied dryly. “We know. We were on that album.” She shot him a glare, before looking back to Clarke and Bellamy.

“Our second album could be about being happy? We’re okay, we’re less broken, we’re up off of the floor, and the fans might then want to hear music about what to do when they’re happy again.” A slow smile spread across Bellamy’s face.

“Yeah,” Clarke smiled. “An album about living.”

It was easier from then on. Bellamy knew what he was writing about, and the others could write the music with him, feed him lyrics if he was stuck, and he was just working, day and night on talking about how to live his life when he wasn’t sure how.

The songs were about being free; being happy and wild and uncaring. Loving and learning, and taking every moment in your hands and holding it until it evaporated into the wind.

They went into the studio with those songs, and sang them loudly, lovingly, until they could hear them back and feel like they were flying. That’s what they wanted – they wanted to feel like they were going ninety down a motor way; windows rolled down and hair flying in the breeze that slapped their faces. They wanted to feel like they were in free-fall; skydiving, plummeting towards Earth and seeing it all from above.

“What are we going to name it?” Murphy asked, pulling the headphones off and hanging them on the microphone. He slid the drum sticks onto the ridge of the bass drum and stood up, wiping his hands on his jeans.

“I don’t know,” Bellamy sighed. “I’ve been racking my brain for something.”

“Couldn’t we just use one of the songs?” Raven questioned, heading out of the studio ahead of him. Bellamy shrugged.

“Which one?”

“I don’t know, it was just a suggestion.” Clarke flopped onto the sofa, as Marcus span around in the office chair, looking at them all. He had decided to come and check up on them and watch their progress.

“I would choose something soon,” he told them. “We’ve got to start marketing in a few weeks.”

-

There was a party at Bellamy’s.

Octavia had arranged it, really, but Bellamy had given her the go-ahead, so she came home from her studio session with the Grounders, carrying bags full of alcohol, Emori in tow.

“Where do you want them?” Emori asked, and Murphy looked up from his seat. It was so blindingly obvious how gone he was for this girl, but as far as Bellamy knew, they were doing some flirting-dance thing around each other, rather than just getting married already. Bellamy hadn’t heard Murphy talk about _literally anyone_ he had an interest in, for months. When he mentioned Sterling, from so long ago it felt like, Murphy had just shrugged before thinking better of it, and giving him the middle finger.

“Kitchen counter,” Octavia replied, and they went into the kitchen, dumping the bags. Bellamy raised an eyebrow at her from where he sat.

“You’re underage,” he pointed out calmly. Octavia shrugged.

“Everyone else isn’t,” she said. “Besides, do you _really_ care?” He rolled his eyes, sitting up.

“As your legal guardian, yes. As your brother,” he trailed off, rolling his eyes. Murphy snorted.

“She’s literally been smoking weed in the woods since she was sixteen,” he added. “I really feel like she’s got some good willpower if this is the first major party she’s attended.” Octavia laughed, rolling her eyes in the same way Bellamy did.

“You guys were on tour,” she said. “I’ve been to plenty of major parties.” Bellamy sighed, watching as Emori wandered into the living room and Murphy sat up in his favourite arm chair. She smiled, coyly, and Murphy smirked. Bellamy looked pointedly away as Raven snorted.

“Fine, but if you get black out drunk I’m going to wake you up with an air horn,” he told her. Octavia grinned.

“Thanks, Bell,” she laughed, before looking to Emori and huffing. “Mori! Come on. We’ve got work to do.” Emori looked over her shoulder from where she was perched on the arm of the chair. “You can flirt with Murphy when you’re good and drunk, _come on_.”

The apartment filled up pretty quickly that evening. Miller and Bryan arrived, and Bellamy hugged his friends hard, having not seen them as much as he wanted to. They often texted, sometimes skyped, but they were away a lot, and both of them were at university, a long way away from Ark. Come to think of it, all of Bellamy’s friends from school had moved away from Ark – the band were the only ones who still came back there to live.

Harper and Monroe arrived a little later, slightly tipsy from pre-gaming, and grinning from ear to ear. When Mbege came in, Murphy _ditched_ the way he was flirting with Emori, just to go and hang out with his old best friend. Emori didn’t seem too put-out though, and just brought him another drink and got to know Mbege. It was cute, Bellamy thought.

Jasper and Monty brought their playlist and speakers, and all of Grounders arrived, stoic and ready to get drunk and still act sober (Bellamy couldn’t imagine any one of them drunk in a million life times).

It was loud and fun and crazy, and they’d gone around and warned all the neighbours two days in advance, and Octavia had even baked them brownies to persuade them not to call the police.

It was dancing in the living room and playing Mario Kart all in reverse; jello-shots and drinking games, Murphy and Emori making out in the corner, Raven talking actively with a girl named Gina (Bellamy had no clue who that girl knew, but she was there and having fun anyway).

It was fun; Clarke under his arm for most of the night because she was a clingy drunk and liked him a lot more openly when she wasn’t sober – then her coming out of that shell and _dominating_  in beer pong.

Bellamy found Lexa part way through the night, leaning up against the wall and watching the entire evening with disdain.

“You’re such a killjoy, Alexandra,” Bellamy commented, leaning up against the wall with her. She had an empty pint glass in her hand, and he could have sworn he’d seen her pound back shots earlier on, but she wasn’t drunk, wasn’t wavering, it was like she just absorbed the alcohol and made it bow down to her, telling it, _no, I control my body, not you._ (Bellamy respected that.)

“I took a course in it,” Lexa replied. “Cost nineteen-ninety nine, but it was worth it, don’t you think?” She arched a perfect eyebrow and Bellamy rolled his eyes.

“How are you still sober?” he asked.

“I’m not,” she replied. “Can’t you tell?” She gestured to herself, and there was nothing out of place. He scrutinised her for a second; her pupils were normal, her hands weren’t shaking, she was perfectly still. He saw one hair out of place and he guessed that was it.

“How’s the album coming?” he asked, changing the topic. She shrugged.

“Good – Octavia’s been a little behind because of her mother’s recent passing, but it’s exactly what we wanted, as of late.” Bellamy nodded, and Lexa returned her gaze to the scene in front of her. Murphy was just losing a game of beer pong. Bellamy smiled to himself.

“Come play doubles with me,” he told her, grabbing Lexa’s hand. Before she could reply, he’d pulled her over to the beer pong table. “Lexa and I are next,” he announced. “We’ll destroy whoever volunteers to go up against us.”

Clarke laughed, flexing out her wrists. “I’ll take that challenge,” she decided. “Miller! You’re good at this, come help me beat Bellamy into the ground.”

“I’ve had dreams like this,” Miller smirked, joining her by the table. Murphy stumbled away, effectively drunk, and crashed into Emori’s side. Harper laughed, giving Monroe a victory kiss before going and setting up the drinks again.

Lexa looked up at Bellamy, studying him for a second, before nodding.

“Let’s kick some ass,” she said, brutal and forward. Bellamy grinned.

-

The next morning he had a raging headache that felt like someone was wearing football trainers, cleats and all, and was stamping on the side of his head – probably playing a trumpet at the same time. He woke up on the sofa, his head on Clarke’s lap (only a slight blush rose to his face when he realised, the rest of it he forced down) and feet on Lexa’s. The two girls were asleep (and, to be fair, much more comfortable with each other after the initial tension had passed) and he carefully picked his way through the room, avoiding his friends all passed out on the floor.

Bellamy was the only one awake, it seemed, as he put on the kettle and searched through the cupboards for a clean mug. Then he heard footsteps, creeping in, and he turned, smiling softly.

“Morning, O,” he said. She nodded, phone in her hand and a grimace on her face.

“Morning, Bell,” she replied. He nodded to her phone.

“What happened?” Octavia glanced down at it, opened on some messages.

“Just drunk texted someone a bit too much,” she told him with a sigh, before relenting. “I don’t think Lincoln’s ever going to date me after this.” She locked the phone, setting it on the counter, and pulling the coffee out of the cupboard. Bellamy began to line up mug after mug, for their friends and she scooped the coffee granules into each one.

“He’ll date you,” Bellamy said. “He’s so into you it’s painful to watch.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he agreed. “And if he doesn’t like the drunk texting and he fucks you over because of it, then he wasn’t worth it in the first place, and I’ll badmouth him on Twitter.” Octavia laughed and someone in the living room groaned.

“Thanks, big brother,” she smiled, lowering her voice again. “It means a lot.”

“Always, O,” he promised, wrapping an arm around her shoulder and pulling her into his side. The kettle clicked off. “I’m always going to be here for you.”

They’re passing out the coffees when Miller frowns at him. “Did you ever choose a name for your album?” he asked. Bellamy handed a coffee to Bryan, and shook his head.

“We’re still stuck on that.”

“Name it _Hangovers Are a Bitch_ ,” Bryan suggested, taking a large gulp of his coffee and then coughing when it was hot.

“Do a System of A Down and just call it _Steal This Album_ ,” Monroe said, sitting up as Octavia passed her a mug. Clarke groaned on the sofa, waking up, and Bellamy watched her for a moment, eyes fluttering, fingers running through her hair as she stretched, before looking away. He pointedly didn’t look at Miller, who was watching him with a smirk.

“Morning, assholes,” Murphy greeted, walking out of the bathroom. Bellamy frowned at him.

“Did you sleep in there?” he asked. Murphy nodded, rubbing at his neck. Emori came out of the bathroom behind him.

“Woke up in the bath,” he replied.

“It really needs a clean,” Emori continued with a nod.

“Call the album,” Miller began. “ _I Don’t Know How To Clean a Bathroom_.” Clarke snorted.

“If we’re making fun of Bellamy, we might as well just go for _History Nerd With an Atlas Complex_ ,” she smiled. Bellamy rolled his eyes.

“I don’t like you anymore,” he told her dryly. She grinned.

“Nonsense. You love me.” It didn’t matter how true it was, he just scoffed and went to fetch more coffee from the kitchen. Raven and Gina came out of Octavia’s room soon after, as well as Anya and Indra, all looking very displeased with the amount of light in the room. They shuffled through, all collapsing onto the floor before being given a drink. Lexa was the last to wake up, now; not bleary-eyed and just very, very, sober. She looked around their tired and pained faces before smiling.

“Did everyone have a good sleep?” she asked. Bellamy caught a few of the glares sent in her direction before she smiled serenely. He passed her a drink before sitting down on the sofa, between her and Clarke. “I’ll take that as a no,” she said quietly, before sipping at her coffee. Bellamy chuckled into his drink.

“Just give the album the same name as the last one,” Jasper said from the corner, curled up next to Monty. Bellamy had almost forgotten about them, but Octavia hadn’t and they were nursing their drinks like they were holy.

“What was the last one called?” Gina asked, looking at Raven, who she was pressed up against. It turned out no one knew Gina because she was just a really good party crasher, and figured no one would notice. People _noticed_ , but no one _cared_. Not even Raven, who spent most of the night with Gina’s tongue in her mouth.

“ _Almost There_ ,” Raven replied. Gina nodded.

“Just called it _Here_ or something,” she shrugged, and the room went silent. “You were saying last night that the first one was about the journey to being okay, and the second was about being happy once you were?” Raven nodded, dumbfounded like she couldn’t remember the conversation. Hell, Bellamy couldn’t remember most of the night before. “Yeah, just do like a continuation. Call it _Here_ or _Now We’re Here_ , or something. I don’t know. Stop looking at me like that.” Gina frowned, looking into her drink.

“It’s not a bad idea, you know,” Clarke mused after a moment. “Continuation title.”

“ _Here_ ,” Bellamy repeated, and it was like it felt right in his mouth. It tasted sweet but sour; saying the word out loud, like some powerful feeling travelled straight to his mind and he _glowed_.

“ _Here_ ,” Clarke said back to him. Gina looked around the group.

“Did I just name your album? Do I get credit for that?”

-

They hadn’t finished the album – there were still more songs to write and record, but Bellamy stopped caring about them. Well, he still _cared_ , but he just spent a few days not writing them. Raven and Clarke were still covering the music for _May We Meet Again_ , the last song on the album which was an ode to all of their lost friends and family, which had been a bitch to write because of the amount of emotional stuntedness in the band, and was at least seven minutes long (with a guitar solo five minutes in, much to Raven’s glee).

Bellamy had time to work on his side project.

They’d been together for almost two years; two years of sitting beside Clarke and seeing her smiling and tugging on his hand to pull him through crowds, and pretending that he _didn’t_ feel the spark every time they touched. Two years of biting his tongue and ignoring his crush and pretending that the words _I love you_ didn’t consider crossing his lips three times a day.

And he was pretty sure Clarke felt similarly. He _caught_ the looks she was sending; he saw the way her eyes lingered, her hand kept holding his when it didn’t have to. His friends had even been telling him that they were certain she felt the same way (even if he never explicitly told them how he felt in the first place). It was just a matter of someone saying something first.

Or, in true Bellamy fashion, _singing_ something first.

Bellamy had found the outline of the song screwed up in the bottom of his duffle bag; surprised Murphy hadn’t found it after having to pick out his clothes when Bellamy couldn’t. The crinkled up paper was torn in his hands but as Bellamy read over the lyrics he couldn’t help but feel them, in his chest. They felt right to him – maybe they hadn’t when he’d first written them, but reading them back it was like his soul had finally described the ineffable feeling of loving Clarke.

So he began writing that song, instead of something for the album.

It wasn’t tricky, really; he kept album work nearby in case anyone asked, he worked in the studio when the band wasn’t there, and at home when they were at the studio. It was only for a few days, and well – no one realised anything was up.

It wasn’t difficult to write the song, either; the words just flowed out of him, a waterfall of meaning and love, and he just hoped that Clarke would hear the words the way he meant them. Because, yes, he’d swallowed his pride and decided that he _would_ sing this song to her – there was no way he couldn’t when he strummed the last note on his guitar and stared into dead air; the feeling of joy he always had when he finished a song, swelling up in his chest. But it was something _more_ , this time. It was something like certainty; he _had_ to sing this song to Clarke, and he had to make sure she understood how he felt.

Bellamy made sure no one would be in the studio, first. He got Raven and Murphy to work on something in the store, and texted Clarke to meet him at Dropship Studios. Once there, Bellamy got the sound technician to leave for an extended lunch (and may have _paid_ for his lunch for him, seeing as that was the price to get him to go).

When Clarke arrived, Bellamy was in the sound booth, sitting on a stool with his guitar perched in his lap. She pushed open the door gently, slipping off her jacket as she smiled.

“Hey, Bell,” she greeted. “What did you need me for?” He nodded to the stool opposite.

“Sit,” he said, swallowing. God, was this what nerves felt like? There was a weight tumbling around his stomach and Bellamy took a slow breath. Clarke eyed him warily for a moment before nodding and sitting down.

“Okay? What’s going on?”

“I wrote something,” Bellamy started after a beat.

“For the album?”

“For you.” There was silence as he watched her; mouth a small ‘O’ and eyes staring with a new light in them. He couldn’t put his finger on it but he hoped it wasn’t bad.

“Oh,” Clarke replied. She nodded, tucking a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. “Can I hear it?” Bellamy nodded.

“I’ve been working on this for a while,” he told her. “I just – it says what I want it to, okay?” Clarke nodded once more, settling in on the stool and watching him. Bellamy wondered if it was awe or interest in her eyes, but he looked away, at his hands on his guitar. It was safer that way.

Bellamy started to strum; it was light, the notes, high and sure, his head nodding slightly with the tune and Clarke’s eyes, burning on his guitar. When Bellamy began to sing, it was low and careful, “ _The dawn is breaking/a light shining through./You’re barely waking/but I’m tangled up in you…”_

It already felt like too much of a confession and Bellamy stopped strumming for a moment; froze and swallowed and took a breath, wondering if Clarke would noticed the way his face was flushed and his heart was beating like a jack hammer.

“Keep going,” Clarke whispered, soft, and he dared a glance at her. Clarke’s eyes were pleading; light glinting and he nodded. Bellamy looked back to the neck of the guitar and adjusted his fingers before picking up where he left off.

“ _But I’m open, you’re closed/where I follow, you’ll go./I worry I won’t see your face/light up again,_ ” he sang, his heart pouring into his words as he played. Bellamy didn’t look back at Clarke yet; couldn’t face what he’d see. Instead, his feelings crawled up onto his skin and laid there; bare and bright for Clarke’s eyes to see. “ _Even the best fall down sometimes/even the wrong words seem to rhyme./Out of the doubt that fills your mind/I somehow find… You and I, collide._ ”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Clarke shifting, but it didn’t feel uncomfortable or nervous. He glanced up, found the corners of her lips tilting upwards as he strummed between the verses and he found his own mouth mirroring hers.

“ _I’m quiet, you know./You make a first impression./Well, I’ve found I’m scared to know/I’m always on your mind…_ ” Bellamy moves back into the chorus, singing in the room and filling up every crevice with his voice. They had their own bubble, in that moment; just Clarke and Bellamy and the music. For a split second, Bellamy wished it would never end.

He reaches the bridge, gaining confidence and looking up at Clarke. His voice doesn’t waver as he sings to her; not to the guitar and his hands, but to _her,_ to Clarke. “ _Well, don’t stop here… ‘N I lost my place…And I’m close behind._ ” He strums back into the chorus again, a smile breaking out on his face as Clarke does the same. Her hand comes up to her eye, brushing away a tear he couldn’t see but must have felt so heavy on her cheek.

“ _Even the best fall down sometimes,”_ he sings, grinning as she does. Clarke lets out a laugh, too, and it’s the perfect sound to grace his ears; to have harmonising with his voice. “ _Even the wrong words seem to rhyme./Out of the doubt that fills your mind, yeah/You finally find/You and I collide…”_   Bellamy plays on the last line a few times, grinning and not wanting the moment to end. It sounded so much better with Clarke in the room, watching and smiling as he sang to her. Eventually, he reached his last line, strumming out with the final word.

 _“…You finally find that you and I …collide_.”

Then there was silence; excruciating silence as Clarke stared at him, a smile playing on her lips but still making him so nervous.

“Do you love me?” she asked, quiet and almost to herself. Bellamy watched her; the way her eyes darted away before coming back and holding his gaze solidly.

“Yes,” he said, sure and nodding. “I love you, Clarke.” Her face was blank for a quarter of a second before she was downright _beaming_. Her smile could have lit up darkened caves as Clarke leapt forward, off of her chair. She planted her lips on his; kissing until she ran out of breath, before pulling back with a laugh.

“I love you, too,” she told him. Clarke ducked back in for another kiss, but Bellamy stopped her.

“Hold on,” he said, pulling the guitar strap from around his shoulders and slipping the instrument on top of the piano. “There.” He tugged her back in by her waist, hands firm and steady on her skin as hers crawled up around his neck; fingers tangling themselves in his hair.

They were messy kissers; all teeth and tongue as they couldn’t stop grinning into each other’s mouths, but neither cared. They were together, kissing and breathing each other in, and he pulled her into the V of his legs; her ducking down from standing to slip her tongue into his mouth-

Bellamy knew the song must have come straight from his soul because they collided in the most beautiful way possible.

-

They were silent. The group was staring at the sound board, now just blinking lights and not playing music. The sound technician was silent – a man called Wick who was usually full of a smart remark for everything – just staring at the band. Marcus Kane, also, was silent.

It was a room full of silence; full of wonder and amazement and _yes we actually did this_.

Then Murphy talked; because Murphy breaks everything, including silence.

“We finished the album,” he stated lamely. Raven nodded, and Clarke’s hand slipped into Bellamy’s, squeezing tightly.

“We finished the album,” Raven agreed, moving now, looking at the people around her. A slow smile spread across her face and Bellamy grinned right back.

“We finished the album!”

It was no longer a room of silence but a room of celebration. Clarke leapt into Bellamy’s arms and he swung her around in a hug; crushing her to him as Raven and Murphy embraced before pretending they hadn’t. Bellamy would have kissed Clarke but Murphy jumped onto his back, knocking him sideways before he regained his balance, looping his hands under his best friend’s legs and swinging him around.

They were cheering; yelling and screaming and happy, so goddamn happy.

It felt the same way it did when they finished the first album; that relief, that pride, that joy. Marcus and Wick both grinned on, congratulating each other as the others lived in their moment of happiness.

It was one of those moments that Bellamy would never forget; would never want to. Even so, Clarke pulled out her phone and handed it to her Godfather.

“Photo,” she told the others, still grinning. Clarke’s hand gripped at Bellamy’s sleeve to pull him closer to her, Murphy still on his back, and the other hand pulled Raven over, too.

“Say cheese,” Marcus smiled, holding up Clarke’s phone. They grinned, laughing and not able to keep the happiness back.

“Cheese,” Murphy, Bellamy and Clarke replied in unison.

“Edam!” Raven shouted, jumping in the air as Marcus took the photo.

Later, Bellamy swiped Clarke’s phone and printed off the photo. He placed a copy of it up behind the counter in Blake Music, and another in a frame on the mantle, in his home.

A final copy was in the music booklet inside the _Here_ album CD case; their wide smiles and pure joy. Raven jumping in the air; legs bent behind her and hair in disarray. Murphy on Bellamy’s back; arms in the air as he cheered. And Bellamy and Clarke in the middle, his hands holding up Murphy, but Clarke’s looped through his arms; head tilted towards him as she went to hide her grin in his arm, and Bellamy looking down at her with love-struck eyes, like she’d hung the moon and stars in the sky.

-

“What’s going on?” Murphy asked, entering Marcus’ office at ARK Records. Murphy was late, as per usual. He swung his backpack onto the floor before landing in a chair next to Raven. Marcus sent him a pointed look.

“We’re discussing your And Now tour,” he replied. “We’ve already decided the set list with most of the songs from _Here_ , and one from _Almost There_ -“

“Do you think we’ll ever name something we do without describing a location?” Murphy asked, shifting in his seat.

“Unlikely,” Raven snorted. “I’m thinking for the next one, we should name it _Over There_.” Murphy scoffed back, sending her a grin as Marcus rolled his eyes. For two people who complained about each other all the time, Murphy and Raven got along _very_ well.

“Right,” Marcus said, pointedly. “We’re deciding who to reach out to for your opening act.”

“We had Trikru last time,” Clarke said. “People seemed to like them.” Marcus tapped at his computer, before frowning.

“No, many of the dates are already booked – they’re getting their own nationwide tour, and it conflicts with the dates of your World Tour.” _World Tour, World Tour, World Tour_ , the words just kept ringing in Bellamy’s head.

“So we just need an opener? A band that hasn’t got much booked yet?” Murphy questioned, sitting up now. Bellamy sent him a curious look as Marcus nodded.

“Yes – I think we could look in Mountain Men, but they’re probably a little more Indie than we’re going for,” he sighed, scrolling through a page on his computer.

“What about the Grounders?” Murphy asked. Bellamy paused. “They don’t have a tour coming up with the release of their album – they’re close enough to our style that people won’t complain-“

“Plus _Emori_ will be there,” Raven cooed, making a kissy face at Murphy, who in turn, grumbled and slouched in his seat again.

“See if I contribute ever again,” he muttered, but his face was tinged with red anyway. Bellamy looked to Clarke, who was nodding approvingly, before turning to Marcus.

“I think Grounders is a good idea,” Bellamy suggested.

“You would,” Raven snorted. “You could keep an eye on Octavia that way.” Bellamy shrugged.

“ _That_ , and they’re a good band.”

“Plus you and Lexa on the road?” Clarke asked with a smile.

“She would _hate_ it,” Bellamy grinned. “Of course I want this.” Clarke laughed and looked to Marcus, tapping away at the computer.

“I’ll email Becca Pramheda, their manager,” he told them. “I think it’s not a bad idea at all.”

“Awesome,” Bellamy replied. “I’m going to make me and Lexa matching t-shirts.” Clarke laughed loudly, ducking her head to press it against his arm, smothering her cackles.

“What, with your _ship_ name on it?” Raven asked, rolling her eyes. “What is that – Bellexa?”

“Originally, yeah,” Bellamy agreed. “I changed it to Brollexa, now though. Because we’re bros. _Oh my God matching key rings,_ ” he grinned, pulling out his phone to search it online. Raven joined Clarke in laughing so hard that tears formed and Murphy just looked on, smugly, with the attention no longer on him.

Bellamy owed him that much, right?

-

“Now, I can’t actually write songs,” Clarke started, pulling Bellamy down from his apartment and into the store. They’d been dating about a month and goddamn had it been the greatest month of his life. Blake Music was empty and Bellamy stopped what she was about to say by pressing his mouth to hers. She moaned appreciatively, backing up against the counter; his hands on her hips and her mouth opening to let his tongue slide in.

Bellamy Blake loved this girl. If that wasn’t already clear.

Clarke pulled away, giving him a look.

“Bell,” she moaned. “I had a plan. I’d decided everything I was going to say – I practiced it like ten times.” Bellamy laughed, pressing his lips against her cheek and squeezing her hand.

“Fine,” he smiled. “Go on, start again.” Clarke nodded, straightening.

“Now, I can’t actually write songs,” she started, beginning again and pulling him over to the piano, in the corner of the store. “So I went searching for songs instead, because I’d be better at playing them.” She nudged him into his seat before she took one on the stool in front of the grand piano. Clarke pressed her fingers quickly against the keys, trying out the sounds.

“I’ve been working at this for a little while,” she told him. “And I’ve been practising my singing – because I’ve never been great at it. And I can’t promise that a miracle has been performed, but I think I’m better than I used to be, okay?” Bellamy nodded. He wanted to stop her from talking; kiss her again or tell her to just play – but she had this planned, he wasn’t going to ruin it for her. Clarke nodded back, swivelling to face to piano and straightening her back.

She always looked like she was about to perform magic when she prepared to play piano, and most of the time she did. Music was a gift that the gods must have bestowed onto her, because it flowed out of her like a river.

She began singing almost at the same time as she began playing, and Bellamy knew the song instantly. “ _Wise men say only fools rush in./But I can’t help falling in love with you… Shall I stay/would it be a sin?|’Cause I can’t help falling in love with you.”_

Her hands performed spells on the keys of the piano; making the music sound slow and longing and beautiful, as she stared at her hands. Bellamy knew Clarke didn’t have to look at what she was playing; she would be able to do it by heart – but he knew what it felt like, singing something so raw and meaningful to someone, and not being able to look them in the eye.

He smiled as she played; her hands so delicate and gentle, whilst he knew that they were like iron and ivory in strength. Her voice wasn’t perfect – but it never had been. Clarke’s singing was husky, but so, so her. It was beautiful to listen to, even if it wasn’t clear as crystal. Bellamy wondered whether his favourite sound was her playing the piano, or her singing, and he decided to call it a draw.

“ _Like the river flows surely to the sea/darling so it goes… Some things are meant to be,”_ Clarke sang, drawing out the notes and making Bellamy feel butterflies flapping around his stomach. “ _So, take my hand, and take my whole life too/’Cause I can’t help falling in love with you.”_

Now, as she played, she looked up. Her head turned to him and the most vulnerable look he’d ever seen cross Clarke’s face was right there in front of him. She knew he loved her, she knew that he would love her for as long as God would let him – but she’d never sung for him; never bared her soul and let him look around. This was new territory for her and Bellamy smiled back, encouraging and loving. She nodded, more to herself than to him, before continuing with the last verse.

“ _Like a river flows so surely to the sea/Oh my darling so it goes… Some things are meant to be._ ” Clarke was smiling; she felt it – she felt the love and the joy and the wonder of being with her, of being with him, and sharing their music so intimately and so beautifully. Bellamy wondered how other couples survived without playing music for each other – but he didn’t want to know. He had his perfect music to listen to, and it was his girlfriend, with a piano, bare foot and happy. “ _So won’t you please… just… take my hand, and take my whole life too./’Cause I can’t help falling in love, in love with you… ‘Cause I can’t helping falling in love, falling in love… I keep falling in… love… with… you.”_

The second the song was over, Clarke looked to him. They both grinned at each other, from ear to ear before he moved forward, capturing her lips with his.

He couldn’t help falling in love with her, either.

-

The crowd was screaming and wonderful. The lights made Bellamy’s mind thump but he didn’t care – he loved the feeling. His sister and her band sauntered off stage and he high fived them, one after another. The crowd adored them; the girl power, the fight, the message.

Bellamy looked over his shoulder at his bandmates; the crowd beginning to chant their name. Murphy pulled back from kissing Emori and they grinned at each other; two delinquents against the world. Raven was hugging Octavia, the latter of whom sent him a wink before going to text Lincoln about the show, and Clarke was heading over from where she was previously standing with Marcus.

Bellamy looked over to Lexa, who was standing beside him.

“Kick ass,” she told him, stern and powerful.

“We always do,” he promised in return. Bellamy shrugged off his jacket – the lights were always hot and he would be sweating by the second song, but behind the stage was cold as anything – and handed it to Lexa. His friend slipped the jacket on over her tank top – one of those gaudy ones with a photo printed on the front; one of the two of them, matching Bellamy’s. They were originally t-shirts but they’d ripped the sleeves off of them – Clarke said they looked more punk rock this way.

Clarke came over, kissing his cheek and sending a smile at Lexa. Lexa looked at Bellamy.

“I made out with your girlfriend before you did,” she informed him. Bellamy laughed.

“I know. You tell me at least once a week.” Lexa nodded, like this was appropriate, and went to her band as The 100 gathered together. Bellamy’s hands shook slightly; the first concert of the tour, the first moment out in the spot light in so long. He remembered the feeling so acutely, but he was sure that there was something missing – the feeling of light-headedness; yes, that was something his memories hadn’t managed to recreate.

“We’ve got this,” Murphy said.

“Let’s dominate this shit,” Raven agreed.

Their smiles were feral; their walks powerful, and they burst out into the light as the crowd went wild.

Bellamy moved straight towards the microphone, slinging his guitar over his shoulder as they went. His mouth was so close to the mic he could taste it, as he spoke lowly for the fans to hear.

“We are The 100,” he said. “Welcome to the Here And Now Tour.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO THANK YOU WELCOME  
> COMMENTS AND KUDOS ARE LOVED AND APPRECIATED. THERE'S A BOOKMARK BUTTON IN CASE U EVER WANT TO READ THIS FIC AGAIN AND WANT TO KNOW WHERE TO FIND IT, AND I'm super thankful and grateful that you guys have read this! Thank you!
> 
> The songs in this chapter were (in order): "Collide" by Howie Day (the acoustic version) and "Can't Help Falling In Love With You" COVER by Ingrid Michaelson.
> 
> Thank you very much for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING!  
> REMEMBER TO HIT THE KUDOS BUTTON AND TALK TO ME IN THE COMMENTS BECAUSE I THRIVE OFF OF THE VALIDATION OF OTHERS!


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